Nothing Else Matters
by Alethnya
Summary: *Movieverse* Dara has spent her life fighting the regime that killed her parents. V has spent 20 years plotting vengeance for his stolen life. He teaches her that justice does exist. She teaches him that there's more to life than revenge.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: *Movieverse* After seeing V for Vendetta, I found myself utterly annoyed by the character of Evey. I started to wonder what the story could have been like if the woman V had met in that alley had been a little stronger and a lot more determined. This story is the product of that. **

**A/N 2: Chapter 1 has been edited & reuploaded.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

_"So, I read that the former United States is so desperate for medical supplies that they have allegedly sent several containers filled with wheat and tobacco—a gesture, they said, of good will."_

Dara glanced over at the television, brush pausing just above the crown of her head.

_"You wanna know what I think? Well, you're listening to my show so I'll assume you do."_

She rolled her eyes, the brush once again moving with long strokes through her hair. "We're listening to your show because we only get one bloody channel you great git."

_"I think it's high time we let the colonies know what we really think of them. I think it's payback time for a little tea party they threw for us a few hundred years ago. I say we go down to the docks tonight and dump that crap where everything from the Ulcered Sphincter of Asserica belongs—who's with me? Who's bloody with me?"_

She pulled her hair into a ponytail high on her head, not quite able to hold back her snort of disgust.

_"Did you like that? USA_ _—Ulcered Sphincter of Asserica. What else can you say? I mean, here was a country that had everything. And now, twenty years later, it's what? The world's biggest leper colony. Why?"_

One boot was tugged on, laced.

_"Godlessness—let me say that again—Godlessness. It wasn't the war they started…it wasn't the plague they created—it was judgment."_

The second boot followed its mate.

_"No one escapes their past. No one escapes judgment. You think he's not up there? You think he's not watching over this country? How else can you explain it? He tested us, and we came through. We did what we had to do."_

She stood, bringing the belt that had been draped across the bed with her and clasping it round her waist, the black leather scabbard fixed to it bumping against her hip.

_"I was there. I saw it all—immigrants, Muslims, homosexuals, terrorists—disease ridden degenerates. They had to go!"_

"If only they'd taken you with them," she breathed as she adjusted, swinging the scabbard and the sword it housed into the proper position at her side.

_"Strength though unity—unity through faith! I'm a God-fearing Englishman and I'm goddamned proud of it!"_

She reached for the remote with a snort of disgust. "That's quite enough of that, thank you very much."

Blessed silence filled the void that was left after Lewis Prothero's vitriol died away, and Dara breathed a sigh of relief. The Voice of Britain indeed. He certainly was not the voice of _her _Britain.

Grabbing her coat from the hook behind her bedroom door, she eased into the supple, worn leather as she left the room, the length of it falling to her ankles and hiding her weapon from view.

Her flat was small but cozy, decorated with an eclectic eye and a haphazard hand—Chinese Silks hung beside Russian iconographic prints; French noir posters were tacked up next to American Indian sand paintings. That they were all blacklisted items was a source of some pride for her. In fact, from the art on her walls to the extensive collection of DVD's tucked neatly onto several racks beside the television, the majority of her apartment could easily have gotten her black-bagged should the Finger ever have reason to search it—which made it all just that much more precious to her.

Crossing the small living room in five strides, her hand was poised above the doorknob when the telephone rang.

"Bugger," she muttered, knowing instinctively who was calling and why. She suffered a long moment of internal debate, but eventually decided that she'd better answer. She had already ignored two calls that evening and even she wasn't sure she could talk her way out of the lecture that a third would earn her. Stalking back across the room, she lifted the receiver from the cradle and brought it to her ear.

"Hello, Will…Liz."

"Where the bloody hell've you been? We've been calling you all bloody night!"

Wincing at the raw, paternal anger in Will's voice, she shifted the phone to her other ear. "Right, sorry 'bout that—got outta work a bit late."

"Nonsense," a second, feminine voice chimed in. "You didn't pick up because you didn't want to hear what we had to say."

"What am I, psychic?" Dara protested, despite the truth of the accusation. "How the hell am I supposed to know what you're gonna say?"

"Don't play stupid with us, my girl," Liz snapped, "It's both annoying and unbecoming. I wish there were time at present to give you the dressing down which you so richly deserve, but I'm afraid we haven't that luxury."

Dara tensed, recognizing the urgency of Liz's tone. "What's happened?"

"Nothing yet," Will said, the same resolved wariness in his voice. "And we're still meeting at the normal time and place…but you're to go straight there. No wandering tonight, Dara—and that's an order."

"You're making a lot of fuss over nothing. I had a hell of a day, so I wasn't planning on any wandering tonight anyway." The lie came out so easily that she almost felt guilty. It wasn't that she disliked lying in general-she was actually quite good at it, truth be told-but she absolutely hated lying to _them_.

"Don't give me that load of rubbish," Will snapped. "You'd walk the streets if you were on your last bloody legs, Dara Turner, and don't pretend otherwise! You're gonna hang up the phone and then do exactly as you please, as you always do. Don't know why we even bother trying to keep you in line!"

Irritation burned away the last of her patience and Dara let out a growl of frustration. "Keep me in line? What the hell do you mean, keep me in line? I'm not a child and I _know _this game! Been fighting this fight longer than just about anyone, haven't I?"

"We know that, Dara…"

"Do you really?" Dara cut in, quite thoroughly angry. "Because it sure doesn't seem like it! Fucking hell, you two…someone's gotta be out there keeping watch!"

"Have you been paying attention at all today, luv?" Will's voice was sharp. "Yellow Code tonight, which means that the Finger's gonna be out in droves once curfew's past, and it's just gone half nine."

"So?"

"So?" She could feel the glare through the phone. "Christ, Dara…d'you _want_ to get black bagged?"

"Yeah…I'd like to see them try," Dara scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Well I wouldn't," Liz broke in, voice hard. "And talk like that makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable, Dara. You're getting overconfident, and that's dangerous. It doesn't matter how good you are or how strong you are—it could happen to any of us."

"You think I don't know that?" Dara snapped, "You really think I don't know that every night could be the last? Well let me assure you that I absolutely do. I know perfectly well that I could die out there tonight. But that doesn't change anything. It doesn't change what I do. And it certainly isn't gonna change the fact that I'll be out there tonight, doing what I do. I'm sorry if that's not what you wanna hear, but it's the way things are. So you can save your breath trying to convince me otherwise."

Neither Will nor Liz doubted her determination—the girl had a will of iron and the tenacity of a bulldog. But while they couldn't fault her for her dedication, neither could they embrace her recklessness nor her foolhardy obstinacy. Her stubborn refusal to comprehend the concept of strategic retreat had long ago proven to be her greatest weakness.

"Dara," Will deliberately pitched his voice low and soft, hoping that an appeal would work better than an order. "Luv…you've gotta understand—we need you safe. You're the best we've got, and we can't afford to have you taking unnecessary risks."

"Wouldn't be the best if I didn't take unnecessary risks," she retorted. "So unless you plan on coming over here and tying me down, Will, you're just gonna have to deal with it."

"It's not just because of the curfew that we want you to stay out of sight tonight, Dara," Liz interjected swiftly, suspecting that they were very close to being hung up on. "Something is going to happen tonight—something big. We've heard rumors…"

"I don't care if tonight just so happens to be the Second Coming of Christ," Dara cut in, impatient to be done with the conversation. "I'm wandering and that's the end of it. Quite frankly, all this conversation's doing is wasting my time. I'll see you soon…same time, same place."

"Dara…"

"Goodbye," she said with unflinching finality, then pulled the phone from her ear and mashed the off button, severing the connection. She dropped the phone back onto its cradle then headed for the door. By the time the phone started ringing again, she was already half way to the lift down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: *Movieverse* After seeing V for Vendetta, I found myself utterly annoyed by the character of Evey. I started to wonder what the story could have been like if the woman V had met in that alley had been a little stronger and a lot more determined. This story is the product of that.**

**A/N 2: Chapter 2 has been edited & reuploaded.**  
**  
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Two**

Keeping carefully to the shadows, Dara made her way down the eerily empty streets of London. Once upon a time, these very streets would have been teeming with life, even at so late an hour. But once upon a time, London had been a very different place, governed by very different rules.

It had been twenty years since Norsefire had taken control of the country. Twenty years since what _was_ had been razed to the ground in favor of what now stood—and over those years, she'd learned a great deal more about human nature than she'd ever wanted or needed to.

She'd been front and center for the show, growing up just as one of the world's greatest civilizations crumbled to the ground, and a monstrosity of hate and greed rose up in its stead. She'd lost neighbors, friends and—most devastatingly—her family to the Fingermen.

Seventeen years had passed since the night her parents had been black bagged and dragged away, and it was their loss that had spurred Dara to follow in their footsteps. They had been marked for death by their participation in the resistance movement—a legacy that Dara had embraced wholeheartedly. Informally adopted by the leaders of the group her parents had died for, Dara had spent the majority of her childhood training to become the fighter that she was.

Norsefire had killed her parents, and she was determined that no one else would suffer that fate—not if it was within her power to save them. Thus the reason she went out nearly every night, stalking the shadows of London-wandering, as the group had come to call it. She helped where she could, she fought when she had to, and she made as much of a difference as she possibly could, in any little way that she could. It wasn't much, in the grand scheme of things...but it was all she had.

The shuffle of a footstep snapped her instantly from her thoughts and she stopped short when a man turned the corner from the main road in front of her, illuminated only marginally by the streetlamp behind him.

"And what've we got here?"

Her hand crossed her body, fingers crawling beneath her coat to wrap reflexively around the hilt the sword still hidden beneath the length leather. Experience had long ago taught her to be prepared for the strike no matter how innocent a man appeared. Not all government agents wore their allegiance for the world to see.

However, this particular situation was an easy read. For, as Will had so kindly pointed out, there was a Yellow Coded Curfew in effect—at home by ten, _or else_—and it was well past ten now.

Thus, the man before her was either a fool or a Fingerman, and the arrogance in his voice and the swagger in his step made it an easy call. Muscles tensing in preparation, Dara turned to follow him with sharp eyes as he began to circle her.

Apparently unsatisfied with her silence, the man narrowed his gaze at her. "You deaf, girlie? I'm talking to you!"

Cocking a brow at him, Dara watched even the tiniest flick of his fingers, gauging…measuring. "Were you? I'm sorry…I was paralyzed with not caring very much."

"Ooh, you're a cheeky one, you are. Not too bright though, luv…not too bright at all. There's a curfew tonight, y'know."

Squaring her shoulders, Dara faced him fully, her weight carefully balanced on the balls of her feet, ready. "Come to think of it, I had heard something like that, yeah," she said smoothly, voice betraying nothing. "But, again, there was that whole thing about not caring very much."

The man gave a throaty chuckle. "Better and better," he murmured. "What you doing out so late, girlie?"

"Just taking a bit of a walk," Dara said with a shrug. "Needed some fresh air."

"Taking a bit of a walk?" The man chuckled again, halting the slow circle he'd been carving around her. "What you think on that, Willy?"

"Load of bollocks is what I think," a second voice, this one lower and rougher, sounded from just behind her. "Total load of bollocks."

Dara instinctively turned, angling her body to allow her a clear view of both men. She held her position, quickly rethinking the plan of attack she'd been forming in her head. Fighting two was very different than fighting one—though she was still confident that she could dispatch them quickly and efficiently.

"Yeah," the first man agreed, giving Dara a lecherous grin. "What you think, luv? Think maybe you might see to us before you get back to your walk? My friend here, see…he's kinda sick…"

"Real sick—bad case of the blues," the second interrupted, leering suggestively before darting forward to grab Dara's hand, shoving it roughly against his groin. "Feel?"

Jerking her hand away, Dara retreated a few steps. She instinctively dropped backwards into a fighting stance even as she fought very hard to contain her anger. "Touch me again and I'll break every fucking bone in your hand, mate."

"Well looky there, Willy…kitty's got claws."

The second man—Willy—shook his head. "I do believe she just threatened us, Tom."

"That she did, that she did," the first—Tom—affirmed. "You know what that means, dontcha? It means we get to exercise our own judicial discretion." He pulled out a small, black wallet, flipping it open to reveal a Finger badge.

"And you get to swallow it," Willy added, brandishing his own badge.

Dara rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her utter disdain. "Sorry to disappoint," she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, "but I already knew you were Fingermen. And quite frankly, that means absolute fuck-all to me. So go on...touch me again. I dare you."

Both men laughed then, and laughed hard.

"Did you hear that?" Willy took a step toward her. "Not scared at all this one."

"No," Tom agreed, also stepping toward her. "We'll just have to see what we can do about that. I promise you this, girlie...if you're not the sorriest piece of ass in all of London by sun up…" he pulled out a knife, flicking it open with practiced ease, "…you'll certainly be the sorest."

Well. That really was that, then.

"See, I really think you've got that one backward." One hand shot out, knocking the knife aside, followed almost immediately by a kick that sent Tom flying backwards to land dazed, but otherwise unhurt, on the pavement. Spinning toward Willy, she dropped again to a fighting crouch, a smirk on her face. "Of course, that's assuming you actually live to see the morning. If I were you, I'd make a run for it."

"Tough words, kitty cat." Willy glanced back at his friend, then pulled out his own knife, taking a large step toward her, cocky enough to ignore the subtle warnings of body language that any schooled fighter would have immediately recognized. "Well come on then, luv—give it me good."

"Okay," Dara sighed, "but I did warn you." A booted foot lashed out, connecting squarely with Willy's waggling jaw, his head snapping to the side and sending him sprawling backwards into the wall behind him. A second kick landed in the center of his face, the delicate bone and cartiledge there shattering and he slumped to the ground, dead before he hit the pavement. Turning to her initial antagonist, she bared her teeth in a feral smile. "And you, Tom? You wanna be given it good too?"

"Fucking hell," the now suitably impressed Fingerman breathed, hands dropping to his waist to retrieve the pistol tucked there. "Joe! A little help…"

Dara discovered all too quickly who Joe was when a bat slammed hard into her ribs. She dropped to her knees on the pavement with a grunt of pain, arms wrapped protectively around her middle.

_Should've been paying closer attention. _The words rang through her head, angry and frustrated. To be caught off guard in general was bad enough…but to be caught off guard by one of these inexpert street thugs was simply inexcusable.

She barely had time to curse her own stupidity before the next blow came, the end of the bat ramming hard into her abdomen and knocking all the wind from her lungs. She fell backwards against the brick wall of the building behind her, gasping to regain the air that she'd been robbed of. She vaguely heard orders being barked, and then the bat settled lengthwise at her throat, cutting off what little air she'd been able to suck in.

"The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him…"

"What the fuck?" Her first attacker spun around. "Sod off, mate…official Finger business…"

"…disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution..."

The voice flitted across her consciousness, but she was too busy fighting for breath to pay it much mind. The same however, could not be said for her remaining assailant. He turned away at the sound, the bat dropping away from her. Dara collapsed backwards, bracing herself against the wall as blessed air streamed back into her burning lungs.

Her eyes settled on the one called Joe, the one with the bat still clasped tightly in his hand. Rage colored her world in shades of crimson, giving her the strength to regain to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom thrown backwards like a rag doll…but she paid it no mind, all of her attention focused on the man directly in front of her.

She drew her sword, the humming vibration of the cold steel singing through the night as it left the scabbard. "Oi! Joe!"

The man in question spun round, eyes wide and terrified. The hands that clutched the bat were shaking almost uncontrollably.

Dara had rarely seen anything that gave her more pleasure.

A deeply satisfied smirk accompanied the practiced twirl of the blade that sent his weapon flying across the alley. She lunged again immediately, this movement a quick, fluid forward thrust that hit its target with unerring accuracy. Meeting Joe's eyes with her own blazing ones, Dara leaned in close to him, her lips brushing his ear. "Just deserts, _Joe_," she growled. "Just deserts."

Lifting one booted foot to rest against his thigh, she shoved him backwards, extracting her sword from his chest. He was dead by the time his body hit the pavement, the blood which had been flowing freely from the heart-wound already beginning to slow.

Eyes trained downward upon the man she had just killed, breath still coming in labored gasps, Dara suddenly realized that she was not alone in the alley—her good Samaritan tarried still. Slowly drawing her gaze upward, she took quick and careful note of the man she now owed her life to. He—like she—was dressed all in black. However, it was there that the similarities in their chosen garb ended.

Her clothing consisted of an eminently serviceable pair of jeans and a simple cotton jumper beneath her long leather duster. The man standing across from her, on the other hand, looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a costume shop. From the boots and the breeches, to the doublet, cloak and hat, her rescuers garb harkened to the seventeenth century…in a very twenty-first century sort of way.

And then there was his face.

Her eyes were drawn to his—or rather, to the blank, black eyes of the white-faced and eternally grinning Guy Fawkes mask he wore. She was English—it was easy enough to recognize that caricatured face; even Norsefire's best efforts had been unable to completely wipe the traditions of Bonfire Night from popular memory.

The mask stared back at her, as unmoving as the man whose face it hid.

After a very long moment, the chin of the mask dipped slightly, the black sweep of the pageboy wig she only then noticed shifting along the pointed jaw-line as it angled down and slightly away from her. "A hit," his booted foot lunged out, turning her felled foe upon his back with a firm shove. The grinning mask tilted back up to her and she could almost swear that she saw the matching smile on the lips beneath it. "A very palpable hit."

The ghost of a grin curved her lips as she pulled the cloth she always carried from her pocket, drawing her blade through it with practiced ease before tucking it away and re-sheathing her weapon. "An Englishman who knows his Shakespeare," she acknowledged with a nod, "how refreshing."

Again, she swore she could see him smile. "Formidable of both hand and mind," that oddly compelling voice complimented, clearly impressed by her recognition of the quotation. The masked man bent at the waist in a formal bow. "I salute you."

Eyes drifting down to his kill, Dara stepped over to the body, dropping to one knee and retrieving the knife still embedded in the corpse's neck with a sharp twist of her wrist. Studying the blade for a moment—admiring the austere beauty if its simple lines—she weighed it expertly in her palm as she stood. "Gorgeous," she commented, offering it to its owner. "And perfectly balanced. Thanks for the help—your timing was impeccable."

The masked man accepted the knife from her, returning it to rest beside its fellows in his belt. "'Twas nothing," he demurred. "Any true English gentlemen would have done the same."

Lips quirking upwards, Dara eyed the fallen man she'd just removed his knife from, and then looked back to her rescuer. "Yeah…right. Most English gentlemen I know would've run the other way as fast as they could—they certainly wouldn't've risked being black bagged for a complete stranger."

A short bark of laughter issued from behind Fawkes' ever-smiling mouth. "An unfortunate testament to the travesty of this, our reality," the blank, black eyes were back on her again. "England is not what She once was and neither are Her gentlemen—but I have hope that both shall one day reclaim the dignity that was once so wholly a part of them."

"A day that can't come fast enough," Dara agreed. Silence fell again, and she took advantage of it to study the man before her with ever-mounting curiosity. "So who're you, then?"

"Who?" The masked man intoned the word gravely, though with an undercurrent of amusement. "Who is but the form following the function of what, and _what_ I am is a man in a mask."

Dara arched a brow at him. "Well, yeah," she acknowledged tartly. "I can see that."

The masked man dipped his chin in agreement. "Of course you can," he said. "I am not questioning your powers of observation. I was merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man _who_ he is."

"Touché," she laughed. "But that wasn't what I meant, and you know it. What's your name?"

"What's in a name?" he mused, backing a few steps away from her. "Certainly not the mettle or the meaning of a man, thus—on this most auspicious of nights—permit me, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the _character_ of this dramatis persona." He paused, bowing his head, hands clasped together before him.

Brow arching, Dara crossed her arms over her chest, her expression one of hesitant confusion. "What..."

"Voilà!"

The interruption was unexpected, and Dara took a startled step back.

Flipping his cloak with practiced ease, the masked man flung his arms wide. "In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified," his voice lilted upward, and the words began to come faster and louder and angrier, "and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition."

Spinning toward the wall, he lunged at an old Norsefire poster that had likely been stuck to it for years, carving a perfect vee into the already crumbling paper with one adroitly wielded blade.

He paused after re-sheathing the knife, and the entire alley—the entire _night_—seemed to have gone deathly silent. A moment later, a slow and deep exhalation broke the stillness. The masked man tilted his head back toward her, offering the profile of the mask to the street lamp's glow. "The only verdict is vengeance," he said in a low rumble, the resonance of the words sending shivers along Dara's spine. "A vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous."

Another pause, and then he laughed; the sound a strange mix of delight and self-consciousness. "Verily," he began again, lighter of both tone and air now, "this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose," he drew his hat from his head, dipping her a gallant bow, "so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V."

Silence.

Nearly a full minute of silence followed—a full minute during which Dara struggled to decide what, if anything, she should say. Because no matter how odd it had been, she felt that such a carefully prepared and enthusiastically delivered speech deserved a response that was just as intelligently worded and passionately delivered. Unfortunately, she was feeling neither impassioned nor clever.

"Right," she paused, grasping for _something_ to say. "Nice…alliteration."

"My thanks," he said, and she got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her. "And now, my dear, I would ask the same of you…to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Dara," she said, offering him a grin. "Dara Turner."

He nodded once, that sharply pointed chin bobbing in acceptance and thanks.

"Dara," he breathed. "A lovely name." The black eyes of the mask settled upon the faint bruises already beginning to bloom on her neck. "Tell me, Dara, are you hurt?"

One hand lifted to rub lightly against the tender skin, self-conscious beneath the weight of his gaze. "I'm fine," she said with a small, dismissive shake of her head, "a little bruised, but fine—thanks to you."

"Please," he protested, "I merely played my part—think nothing of it. But tell me, my dear…do you like music?"

The question—apropos of nothing—caught her off guard. Frowning a little, she nodded. "Yeah...why?"

"I am a musician of sorts, you see. And tonight, I am giving a very special concert and would be most delighted if you would accompany me."

"A musician?" She looked him up and down, mildly disappointed. She'd assumed he was like her—from some resistance group with a flair for the dramatic that she just hadn't heard of. "What sort of musician? That the reason for the costume?"

Again, the unshakable certainty that he was smiling even wider than the mask he wore. "But of course," he replied with a flourish. "It is, as I said, to be a very special performance. And as for what sort of musician...percussion is my particular specialty…but tonight…tonight I shall conduct the entire orchestra in all her sweeping glory!"

There was something irresistible about him—despite the fact that he was without question the oddest man she had ever met in her life. In the end, it wasn't even a question really. With a smile and a nod, she committed herself to being his companion for the evening, following along after his beckoning figure—following all the way to the rooftop of an office building, standing at his side and staring out over the skyline of London.

"And here we are," he doffed his hat, dropping it to the ground beside him.

"It's beautiful up here," Dara commented absently, eyes skimming over the vista before her.

"A more perfect stage could not be asked for. I think you shall find the acoustics particularly satisfactory."

Blinking owlishly, slightly puzzled by both their location and the man himself, Dara glanced around feeling more than a little confused. "I don't see an orchestra."

"My dear Dara, your powers of observation continue to serve you well. Indeed there is none to be seen…but it is there. Oh, I assure you, the orchestra is all assembled, and waits only for the right moment to begin."

Tilting her head to study his profile, Dara shivered slightly at the odd edge in his voice. "The right moment?"

"Yes," he said, "_my _moment." Lifting his eyes high, he pointed toward the gilded and blindfolded statue crowning the Old Bailey. "It is to Madame Justice that I dedicate this concerto—in honor of the holiday she seems to have taken from these parts, and in recognition of the imposter that stands in her stead." Slowly, that masked face turned toward her. "Do you know what day it is, Dara?"

Another of those bizarre, incongruous questions—but she answered him nonetheless. "November the fourth."

Just then, Big Ben began to chime, sounding the midnight hour in his sonorous, ancient voice. V went still at the sound. "Not any more," he breathed, the words a mere whisper. And then, in a stronger and strangely unnerving voice—"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot…I know of no reason, why the gunpowder treason should ever…be…forgot."

Not knowing what to say…or even if she was expected to say anything, Dara kept her lips firmly shut, watching as V drew a conductor's baton from the pocket of his doublet. Tapping it upon one of the pipes beside him, as if calling as yet invisible players to attention, he raised his arms high.

"First the strings," he murmured, his arms beginning to rise and fall rhythmically. "Yes…yes…the strings…the strings…"

Ears straining, Dara frowned even deeper. "I don't hear any…"

"Wait for it!" V interrupted. "Now the brass…ah, yes…the brass…_now _can you hear it?"

And suddenly, amazingly, she could. It was the 1812 Overture, a piece she knew well. Sucking in a lungful of cold air, Dara surged forward, hands curling over the sides of the balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. "I can hear it," she breathed, eyes seeking out the source of the music.

When she did—when she connected the sound to the loudspeakers placed on every street corner—her head whipped around, staring in wonder at the masked man moving his arms in perfect time with the music. "V…how…?"

"Hush, my dear…hush…for now, we await the best part of all. Turn around, Dara, turn around…you certainly won't want to miss it."

She did as she was told, turning back around to face London. "Miss what?"

"Wait for it," V repeated his earlier censure, his voice rising. "And now, here it is…the crescendo!"

And then it happened. Just as the music exploded into the most familiar chords of the overture, so too did the Old Bailey. Bombs went off all along the length of the building, sending it crumbling and crashing to the ground, the explosions almost perfectly timed to the music sounding defiantly through the night. The fireworks came next, exploding across the sky in an array of colors—a pyrotechnic display such as she had never seen before.

Dara watched the spectacle with wide, unbelieving eyes. It was an odd juxtaposition, V's delighted laughter behind her, chaos raining down before her. Only when the last mortar had exploded, branding the sky above the raging inferno with a red V embedded within an equally red circle, did Dara turn around.

V stood behind her, his arms raised high and suspended, motionless at the level of his shoulders. Black gloved hands reached outward, as if he would draw the image before his eyes to himself—as if he would embrace the fire that burned below them. Dara watched him for long moments before bringing herself to speak.

"You did that."

The words shook him from his reverie, and his arms finally dropped to his sides, the baton stowed swiftly back inside his doublet. "I did," he affirmed, calmly—proudly.

"Why?"

The question surprised him. Not because she asked for an explanation—that he had expected—but because, instead of the accusation he had anticipated, it was asked with nothing more than honest curiosity. "Because, my dear, it needed to be done."

"Needed to be done," she echoed, almost beneath her breath, studying this enigmatic man before her with probing eyes. "Needed to be done why?"

"For the people," V answered simply. "And for England. Because the abomination that has taken both hostage must not be allowed to stand."

So she had been right all along. He _was_ just like her. "Revolution," she murmured, excited. "You're talking about revolution—about taking Norsefire down." She turned to look once more over the smoldering ruin of the Old Bailey, then back at her companion. "And about bloody time, I'd say," she said with certainty, and grim satisfaction.

His entire bearing shifted then, the angle of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, revealing clearly that her words had pleased him. "It is indeed," he murmured, satisfaction coloring the words. "Dare I hope that you share my vision?"

"Oh, I do," Dara said, grinning slightly. "If your vision is an England free of Norsefire, then yeah, I really do indeed."

V was silent, and Dara could feel the eyes behind the mask measuring her.

"I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence," he said at last. "And as such, I think, perhaps, fate has dealt me a prodigious boon this night by guiding me to you, my dear. Tell me though, for I cannot help but wonder—do not you find me a trifle…mad?"

The fact that he actually sounded self-conscious nearly made her laugh—it also assuaged any doubts she had about his mental state. The truly insane don't know they're insane after all. "Though this be madness, yet there is method in't," she quoted, her smile broadening. "Everyone thought Hamlet was a nutter too," she continued, "but that's only because they couldn't see the big picture, wasn't it?"

"And you can see the big picture, can you?"

She grinned. "Nope, I was just giving you the benefit of the doubt. It'd be awfully rude of me to tell you I think you're completely barmy when you've only just saved my life, wouldn't it?"

He laughed, and this time, there was real fondness in it. "Oh my dear," V breathed, his words bathed in admiration, "you are a happenstance that I could never have foreseen—indeed, that I could never have imagined. I think I must give the greatest of thanks to the powers that set your feet to the dark and dangerous pavement of this great city upon this night, of all nights."

She wished that it wasn't, but his words were a stark reminder of the duty that had driven her from her door in the first place, and her smile faltered. Brow creasing, she glanced down at her watch, noting that it was nearly fifteen past midnight. She had a meeting on nearly the opposite end of the city—and less than an hour left in which to get to it.

"What has upset you?"

The concern in his voice warmed her from the inside out, and she marveled at the strength of the affinity she already felt for this strange masked man. It was because of that new and still tenuous bond—paired, of course, with his loudly proclaimed desire for revolution—that she actually considered telling him the truth. However, that urge to share the reason for her sudden solemnity was quickly and easily suppressed. She had absolutely no doubt that this man before her would make a powerful ally to them, as they would to him…but she simply couldn't reveal anything without discussing it with the group first.

Thus, it was with a small shrug and a light smile that she returned her gaze to him. "Nothing really," she said, "Just realized how late it's getting is all. I should be getting home."

A siren blared nearby, followed swiftly by several more. "Especially considering what just happened," she continued. "The streets are gonna be crawling with Fingermen."

"Yes," V agreed with a sigh, "I daresay they shall." He moved forward, coming to stand beside her to watch the nearly unending line of black government vehicles tearing down the street below. After a few long moments, he tilted his head toward her. "I do not like to think of you traversing such treacherous conditions on your own," he said. "Would you, Dara Turner, allow me to escort you home? I feel it is the very least I can do in return for the very great pleasure of your company this evening."

She was, at the same time, both frustrated and delighted by his offer. The prospect of a bit more time in his company birthed the delight…but the hindrance that such company would be to her purpose fueled the frustration. In the end though, the enticement of the former overcame the inconvenience of the latter, and she gave him a bright smile. "That'd be lovely," she said, and meant it.

After all, it would be simple enough to slip back out into the shadows once he had left her at her door.

"Well then, my dear," he paused just long enough to sweep his hat from the ground, donning it with a flourish and then offering her his arm with a gallantry that was all charm, "shall we depart? The Finger shall most certainly begin cordoning off the area, and I should hate to rescue you from one threat only to deliver you into another. "

Her fingers had slipped around the solid strength of his arm before the idea to do so had even fully formed in her mind. The movement brought her closer to him than she had been yet and she stared up into the black-screened eye slits of the mask intensely. "I don't know why," she said, her voice low, "but I trust you. And I don't think you'd let that happen."

For a split second, he stilled beneath her touch, the only hint that there was a living man beneath all the black a tremulous exhalation of breath that would have spoken volumes had she known him better. It lasted only for the barest of moments though, and then the life flowed back into him, the muscles beneath her fingers shuddering beneath her touch. The mask dipped infinitesimally toward her, and she found herself wishing with striking intensity to be able to see the eyes that she could feel burning into hers.

"Indeed I would not, Dara." His voice was low, heavy with something she could not identify. "Indeed I would not."

Without another word, he turned them toward the door by which they had ascended to the rooftop, and Dara once again let him lead her through the building and out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Chapter 3 has been edited & reuploaded.**  
**  
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Three**

V kept watch upon the door of Dara's building from the darker recesses of the alley across the street even after she was safely ensconced within. He did not like to linger, but concern for her kept his feet firmly planted upon the pavement with his eyes locked unblinkingly upon the glass doors through which she had disappeared. He had taken great pains to avoid Norsefire's streetcams, but he was not infallible. If they had been seen, she would reap the lion's share of the consequences. It had been a sobering realization when it had come, and he immediately knew that it had been unfair to bring her along.

Though having someone at his side to bear witness to the opening salvo of his grand plan had been...gratifying. In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined that someone like her existed—someone who had looked upon that which he had wrought with acceptance and even—dare he say it—enthusiasm. _A kindred spirit,_ his mind whispered to him, even as the cold, rational side of his nature scoffed at such an absurdity. He knew extraordinarily little about her, aside from the fact that she knew her Shakespeare and was a dab hand at the sword.

That last bit was a source of some interest to him. She had wielded her blade with an expertise that he had admired, and an efficiency that he had recognized. This was a woman who had killed before…of that he had absolutely no doubt.

But where had one so young acquired such proficiency?

It was a question that had hung at the back of his thoughts all evening, and one to which he had been able to posit no satisfactory answers. Weapons such as the one she carried had been outlawed long ago, and he doubted there were any left in England who would have willingly offered their services to teach her such handiness with a blade.

She was an mystery to him. A fascinating enigma…and V did so love a good puzzle.

The bleating cry of a siren in the distance shattered the stillness of the night, its proximity shaking him from his thoughts and reminding him that such loitering was reckless on this night of all nights. He was just on the verge of leaving when a movement from the shadows on the opposite side of the street caught his attention. The eyes behind the mask widened in surprise, then immediately narrowed in suspicion as the very object of his musings slipped back out into the night he had so recently delivered her from. He watched in silence, barely daring to breathe, as she looked both ways up and down the street, her eyes blazingly blue in the fluorescence of the streetlamp. After a moment, apparently satisfied that all was clear, she reached up and drew a black hood over her hair and began to make her way down the street, hugging the buildings and keeping to the darkness where she could.

V, suspicions mounting, immediately set his feet after her, tailing her through the shadows.

Had it been something more sinister than fate that had thrown her into his path? Could she be an agent for the very government he sought to overthrow? Could she even now be on her way to betray him?

The questions slithered through his mind as he followed her, each one eliciting a strange mix of anger and disappointment. It seemed unlikely, all things considered—but he had long ago learned that one could never be too careful.

When she made a sudden and unexpected turn into one of the newer cemeteries—and London had an ever-increasing number of them—V arched a brow in surprise. What could she possibly have to do in a cemetery at this hour?

Still shadowing her, though from an even greater distance now, V made his way past the headstones and monuments, past small marble plaques and great stone angels alike. His eyes never left the slight figure ahead of him, his mind struggling to find a reason why the hurried pace with which she had hastened along the streets had slowed, and why she was even now looking about her warily, her hand resting with undisguised intent upon the hilt of the sword she had drawn her coat back to reveal.

When she stopped, so did he, slipping behind the sheltering bulk of a nearby grave marker. Her hand dug into the pocket of her coat and she drew out a cell phone, snapping it open and bringing it to her ear.

"I'm late, I know," she said without greeting whoever was on the other end of the line, "but I'm almost there."

V, his heightened senses being what they were, could make out the faint mumble of the voice on the other end of the conversation, though he could not make out what was said.

"Oh…right. Yeah…yeah…I know about it. It was one hell of a show, wasn't it?" She paused, laughed lightly. "And actually, I need to talk to you about that…"

A twig snapped, and instantly her attention was drawn in the direction the sound had come from. Frowning into the darkness, she scanned the area carefully. "It's gonna hafta wait though," she murmured, and now V's attention was drawn from her to the armed men that suddenly appeared from the shadows. "The location is compromised. Get out. Be in touch soon."

She snapped the phone shut and stowed it back in her pocket. Drawing her sword, she dropped to the same stance that V had seen in the alley—all wary readiness and quiet strength. "Hallo, lads," she greeted, sounding surprisingly pleasant, given the circumstances. "Lovely night for a stroll, eh?"

"Don't move," one of the men—a pair of uniformed beat cops—intoned gravely, pistol trained unerringly upon Dara. "You're under arrest. Drop the sword."

They had closed on her now, pinning her in against the mausoleum at her back. If she was concerned by the guns pointed her direction, she didn't show it. She smirked at the command.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll hold onto it." She leaned slightly onto the balls of her feet, her grip tightening on the sword. "I'm quite attached to the old girl, y'see."

"Put down your weapon, or we'll be forced to shoot."

Dara's lips tightened into a grimace of displeasure. "It'd really be better for you if you just walked away now—I'd honestly hate to have to kill you."

The lead officer's eyes narrowed. "I repeat…put your weapon down, or we _will _shoot."

"Yeah, I'm sure you will," Dara sighed, reluctant but resigned. "For your sakes, I hope at least one of you's a fair shot."

She lunged then, striking out with the same precision that she had displayed in the alley.

V watched the fight, in awe of her all over again. She was a deadly beautiful thing to behold as she spun and lunged and struck. There was a style and fluidity to her every movement that was, quite frankly, magnificent—as was the presence of mind she showed, always managing to keep one of the officers between herself and the other, effectively ensuring that neither would fire on her for fear of hitting his partner.

In fact, he found himself waxing positively poetic, certain that in such lethal beauty, there were sonnets just waiting to be written.

Without even realizing it, he had moved toward the fight. Habitual caution had fled in the face of mesmerized captivation, and it was only when her wide, shocked eyes met his and the vicious poetry of her onslaught came to a screeching halt that he realized what he had done. Not only had he moved without conscious volition—an unforgivable lapse for a man like him—but he had also just startled her out of the advantage.

A well aimed kick caught the blade of her sword, knocking the hilt from her grip and forcing her attention away from him and back to the fight. Disarmed now, Dara was left dodging blows from either side. Ducking one inexpertly directed punch, she rolled across the grass, collecting one of pistols she had relieved the officers of as she went. She came up firing.

A stray bullet ricocheted off the wing of the stone angel V had taken cover behind, sending dust and gravel raining down upon his head-clearly, her weapons proficiency did not extend to firearms

In the silence that followed the last shot, V saw immediately that what she lacked in accuracy, she'd quite made up for with enthusiasm—she'd emptied the magazine in quick succession, leaving both officers lying on the grass beside the mausoleum. One was clearly dead, and V looked quickly away from the grim sight. The other officer had also been hit, though V could still see his chest rising and falling erratically.

Dara, the still extended pistol shaking in her hands, let out a shuddering breath. After a long moment, she dropped her arms to her sides before moving to stand over the- _regretfully-_still living officer. Leaning down, she pulled a back up magazine from his belt. Ejecting the empty and then fumbling the new one into place, she stepped across him, one boot on either side of his chest and took careful aim, firing a single shot with far greater accuracy than she had showed earlier.

At that point, the officer finally cooperated. His chest rose and fell once more, then…nothing.

There was something far, far colder about this death than any other he'd seen her mete out that night. The other deaths had been in the heat of battle. This…this had been an execution.

He lifted his eyes to Dara's face, reading her expression as she stared down at the man she'd just murdered. Regret was etched into every line of her countenance and poured off of her in waves so thick that he could feel them even from where he stood.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice low and rough, her breath hitching in her chest. "Really, I am. You're not…you were just trying to do your job. But I can't afford to be caught, y'see…I know too much…and…"

Her voice cracked. Turning away abruptly, she stumbled a few steps away and then emptied her stomach onto the grass. After a few long moments of retching, she sniffed and wiped at her mouth with the back of her sleeve and then swiped at the tears on her cheeks with trembling fingers. Her remorse was bracing; it reassured him, though he couldn't have said why. His own hands were far from clean...

He was drawn from his reverie by a sharp cry of dismay.

Dara had moved back toward the mausoleum, and was leaning down to examine something he could not see. She reached down and when she straightened, her sword was in her hand. Or at least, what was left of her sword.

Her eyes were locked unblinkingly on the spot only inches above the hilt where the blade had sheared off.

He had not seen it happen, but he suspected that it had fallen victim to that single well-placed kick. It must have caught the blade at just the right angle and snapped it in two.

"Fucking hell!"

Her exclamation reclaimed his attention. She was glaring at the spot he had occupied when he'd distracted her so thoughtlessly. Shaking the mangled remains of her weapon in that direction, her narrowed eyes glared out into the shadows of the cemetery. "If you're still out there, you absolute fucking wanker," she snarled, "you owe me a fucking sword."

V, seeing the fury vibrate through every inch of her body, dropped his head, acknowledging the truth in her words. It was a lucky thing that her sword was the only price she'd had to pay for his carelessness—he could all too easily have gotten her killed into the bargain.

When he looked up again, she was gone. Stepping out of the shadows once more, V caught sight of her long black coat disappearing into the darkness. He nodded in her direction, holding one hand to his heart. "My dear girl, should ever we happen to meet again, I shall do my level best to make good upon that debt."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapter has been edited & reuploaded.**  
**  
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Four**

Dara was still furious over the loss of her sword the next day-especially when her mind started to wander further down the path of memory toward the other part of last night that she really did _not _want to think about. So, she focused. She fumed. She _dwelled_.

She'd been given that sword six years prior as a gift for her twenty-first birthday by Will and Liz. It was a sword that they'd had specially wrought for her by a highly skilled smith in the north of England who also happened to be a sympathizer with their cause. A one of a kind piece, especially as the maker had since passed on.

Now, it was gone, and all because...

"Dara? Are you even listening to me?"

Her attention snapped back to the present, eyes refocusing on the woman standing in front of her, hands on hips and eyes narrowed in a sharp glare. "Sorry, Patricia...what was that?"

Patricia, a particularly snotty programming exec, rolled her eyes, thrusting her coffee mug into Dara's face. "Decaf, non-dairy mocha latte," she barked, "and do please _try_ to remember the cinnamon this time, will you?"

Tempering the immediate response that sprung to mind, Dara forced a smile to her lips as she reached out to pluck the mug from the other woman. "Right away, Patricia."

She had worked at the BTN for nearly a year, and it still took every shred of will power she had not to smack Ms. Patricia Harding in the face with her own mug. But one did what one must—and Patricia, if left unappeased or provoked in any way, could make her life a living hell.

And as the electric bill was coming due and rent loomed on the horizon, Dara swallowed her pride, stashed her mail cart in a supply closet and headed downstairs to fetch Patricia her decaf, non-dairy mocha latte _with_ cinnamon. A little menial labor was far preferable to unemployment, no matter how demeaning it might be. On the way back up, the lift stopped several floors before her destination. She grinned in welcome as one of her fellow gophers stepped through the doors, loaded down with an ridiculously large stack of interoffice delivery envelopes. "Morning, Evey," she said in greeting.

"Hey, Dara," Evey Hammond said from behind her armful. "Is it really still morning?"

"'Fraid so," Dara commiserated. "What floor?"

"42," she replied. "I need to deliver these to Mr. Dietrich."

Dara pressed the button for her. They fell silent, the small LCD screen above the panel showing the current news broadcast. They were talking about the destruction of the Old Bailey—as if they could have tried to talk about anything else.

_'On the lighter side of things, the crew responsible for the demolition of the Old Bailey wanted to give the old girl a grand, albeit improvised, send off.'_

_'Although the demolition had been planned for some time, the music and the fireworks were, according to the crew chief, definitely not on the schedule.'_

"D'you believe that?"

Dara glanced over at Evey. "Believe what?"

Evey nodded toward the screen. "That it was a planned demolition?"

_Careful, _Dara reminded herself, _be very careful._ "D'you?"

A small shrug was all that Evey could manage with her arms as full as they were. "I dunno. Seems a little far-fetched to me…I mean," she shook her head, "did you _see_ it?"

The lift came to a stop then, and Dara breathed a mental sigh of relief as the bell signaling the opening of the doors chimed. "Gotta run," she said, hoping that she sounded apologetic rather than relieved, "Patricia's waiting on her coffee, and you know how she gets if it takes more than five minutes to get it to her."

Evey gave her a sympathetic smile. "Oh, believe me, I do know. Last week, it took me fifteen minutes to get it up to her and she threatened to have me written up for incompetence."

"Yeah, that's Patricia all over," Dara laughed. "Have a good day."

"You too."

The doors of the lift shut again and Dara headed for Patricia's office. Once she had delivered the coffee—receiving a tongue lashing for not putting _enough_ cinnamon on it—she retreated as quickly as possible from what many in the office had quietly labeled the Lion's Den.

Hastening back to the mail cart, she rechecked her list and pushed the laden cart into Stage 3 Wardrobe. "Suzette...where d'you want these?"

Suzette Jennings, Wardrobe Coordinator for the station, glanced up from the bead she was reattaching with a frown, her glasses perched on the very tip of her nose. "What are they?"

Dara shrugged. "No idea—they're just marked Stage 3."

"Oh bloody hell," Suzette snapped, handing over needle and thread to one of her assistants before rising. She grabbed one of the boxes from the cart, tearing into it. "Probably something for Prothero."

Her hand dipped into the box, pulling out...

Eyes widening with surprise, Dara stared down at the grinning face of Guy Fawkes. Suspicion began to creep through her veins and she eyed the other boxes on the cart dubiously, memories of the night before still all too fresh in her mind. The prospect of what the rest of the identical boxes contained left her feeling vaguely uneasy and more than a little twitchy. He'd already blown up one landmark? Who was to say that Jordan Tower wasn't next?

"Bugger," Suzette cursed, tossing the mask and cloak down on the cart. "Just take them into the studio and set them off to the side," she instructed, waving them away dismissively. "There's not enough room in here for that great mess when I don't even know what they're for."

Dara nodded, but said nothing. Her instincts were screaming at her, telling her in no uncertain terms to get moving. She dumped the cart where she'd been instructed and then all but ran through the halls toward the tiny cubbyhole that was the gophers "office". She stopped short at the front desk, noting with increasing dread the empty chair where Fred, the day guard, should have been seated. Ultimately though, it was the snow on the security monitors behind the desk that turned her suspicions into a single, solid certainty—she needed to get the hell out of the building as quickly as possible.

_"Attention employees_," she jumped at the sound of the voice over the PA, "_please proceed to the nearest exit. The building must be evacuated. Attention employees..._"

"Shit," she muttered, sprinting the last few feet to the door of her office and ducking inside to grab her bag. Heading back out the door, she glanced both ways up and down the hall—a hall suddenly full to bursting with nervous people. Deciding to go with the flow, she dove into the throng, working her way toward the stairs.

By pure chance, her eye caught and held the gaze of a man standing at the end of the hall. She recognized him immediately, so often had she seen his face on evening news reports—Eric Finch, Chief Inspector of Police. It shouldn't have been a problem. In fact, it shouldn't have mattered in the least that the Chief Inspector of Police was looking right at her—and on any other day, it wouldn't have. But today was not just any other day. Today was the day after the night before.

And the night before, she realized with a sinking stomach, had changed everything.

The grim, undeniable truth of her epiphany was brought sharply home when the Chief Inspector raised his arm, pointing directly at her. "There she is!"

"Fuck me," she muttered, immediately spinning around and fighting her way back through the crowd. Luckily, the officers now in pursuit had to fight through the same mess, giving her a not considerable, but adequate, head start. Bolting around a corner, she darted into an empty store room, seeking a place to hide. That hiding place ended up being beneath a table, on her stomach, with a few hastily rearranged boxes blocking her from view.

It was only a minute or so later that the door flew open, and the sound of footsteps echoed off the tile floor. She held her breath. Every muscle in her body went tense with anticipation. Just one officer—she could handle one officer.

He wasn't particularly thorough though, no doubt due to the sheer chaos of the current situation, and he left the room after only a cursory check. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dara inched her way out, careful not to knock anything over or make any noise—the last thing she needed was to draw attention of any kind.

She was approaching the door, hand extended toward the knob, when the television mounted high on the wall of the office lost its signal, the latest Storm Saxon episode disappearing into a sea of static. But then, only a moment later, an image clicked in, and her breath caught in her throat.

_V._

"_Good morning, London_." His voice fell into her ear like honey, and she was astonished at how welcome the sound of it was. It had only been hours since last she'd heard that voice, but to her strangely parched ears, it felt like days. Especially strange considering how angry she was at him—but the ability to think about such things ground to an absolute halt as he continued, his words drowning out all other thoughts.

"_Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you, appreciate the comforts of every day routine—the security, the familiarity, the tranquility, the repetition. I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration—thereby those important events of the past usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, a celebration of a nice_ _holiday—I thought we could mark this November the Fifth, a day that is sadly no longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat._

"_There are of course those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the annunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and depression—and where once you had the freedom to object, think, and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission._

"_How did this happen? Who is to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable. But again, truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease—there were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you turned to the now High Chancellor, Adam Sutler. He promised you order, he promised you peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent. _

"_Last night, I sought to end that silence. Last night, _I_ destroyed the Old Bailey, to remind this country of what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago, a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice and freedom are more than words—they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you, then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand beside me one year from tonight, outside the gates of Parliament, and together we shall give them a fifth of November that shall never, ever be forgot_."

The image of V disappeared then, lost to the hiss and pop of static. Dara stared at the screen long after the image of the man had died away, frozen into immobility by the enormity of his message.

She'd gotten a glimpse of his intentions last night on the rooftops of London, and she had understood.

But this…

The true expanse of his plan was now laid before her, and it painted an intricate pattern that sent a low tremor of anticipation through her. She'd seen the death of Norsefire in the set of his shoulders last night, and now, she could hear all the hope for the future in the cultured resonance of his voice. A thousand questions that only he would be able to answer ran roughshod thorough her mind, almost dizzying in their intensity—questions that she would have loved to ask, but doubted that she would ever get the opportunity to.

"Stop right there!"

The shout sounded from the hallway outside, making Dara jump. She was at the door in an instant, pulling it open quietly, peeking out to see what was going on—and what she saw was a detective, gun drawn and aimed unerringly at V's back.

She almost laughed. She didn't believe in fate, but this was almost too convenient to be called anything else.

"Get your hands up and turn around!"

"I must say that I'm astonished by the response time of London's finest," V's voice was perfectly calm. He turned toward the officer, hands raised obediently. "I had not expected you to be quite so Johnny-on-the-spot."

"We were already here when you got here," the officer said, almost smug. "Bad luck, chummy."

Generally speaking, Dara considered herself to be a rational, levelheaded woman. She had been trained to keep her head low, to steer clear of any situations that could reveal her as more than just the extraordinarily ordinary young woman that she appeared to be. At that moment however, she found herself making a decision that didn't just fly in the face of that training—it disregarded it entirely.

_Oh bloody hell…in for a penny, in for a pound. They're already after me as it is._

She stepped out the door, eyes meeting V's as she moved silently down the hall. Somehow, she could sense the nod he gave her, though he didn't move at all.

In fact, he gave no outward sign at all that she was there, other than cocking his head ever so slightly to the side. "Oh, I don't know about that. Luck, you see, has rather a funny way of changing—and always when you least expect it."

Dara's hand clamped down on the detective's shoulder at that moment, spinning him around as she prepared to deliver what she intended to be a knock out punch. _Intended _being the operative word. Instead of the solid strike she'd meant to dish out, the punch landed as nothing more than a glancing blow to the nose that left the detective reeling, but still conscious…and now, on the defensive. He swung out blindly before she could react, catching her just above the eye with the butt of his pistol.

Pain exploded through her skull and she staggered backwards with a grunt. Her vision had gone blurry and she blinked furiously. The haze cleared just enough for her to see the detective, blood dripping from his nose, draw down on her.

"Oh, _fuck_," she groaned, seeing the inevitable a moment before it became reality.

She felt the tearing pain in her left shoulder almost before the sound of the pistol firing registered in her ears, and she let out a wail of agony as she slumped against the wall. A moment later, the detective dropped to the floor in front of her, finally—_finally_—unconscious. She slid to the floor, the pain in her head combining with the pain in her shoulder and leaving her hovering on the edge of consciousness.

She heard her name called, but it sounded far away and fuzzy. Instinct forced her head up to answer the summons though, and she had just enough time to see V moving toward her before she gave herself up to the encroaching darkness. Her head lolled to the side and, with a tiny whimper, she followed the detective into oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Chapter has been edited & reuploaded.**  
**  
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Five**

The first thing that Dara noticed when she woke was the music—the soft, sultry tones of some long forgotten jazz singer rolling dulcetly across her ears. Her interest in the piece lasted only as long as it took for the throbbing pain in her shoulder to work its way past the last vestiges of fog blurring her waking mind. Grimacing, she hauled herself upright with her good arm, only noticing the dull pain in her head once she sat up. Leaning back against the headboard, she lifted her hand to probe the tender area above her right eye, noting with some surprise the butterfly plaster taped over the wound.

That, she soon discovered, was not the only evidence that someone had taken great care in patching her up. The left sleeve of her blouse had been cut away and there was a large, white bandage on her shoulder. And a quick survey of the room around her left little doubt about the identity of the responsible party.

Stacks of books lined the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling—and the few odd pieces of furniture were equally as laden with leather bound volumes. Indeed, the only surface clear of them was the bed she was laying on. No such room existed in her own home, and she clearly was neither in jail nor in hospital…which left only one alternative.

Gingerly easing herself to the edge of the bed, she swung her legs around and stood slowly, sock-clad feet sinking into the surprisingly lush carpet beneath them. It was slow going, her various aches and pains throbbing more and more with each step she took—but, refusing to be deterred, Dara made her way out the door of the room and down the corridor on the other side of it. Using the music as her guide, she shuffled down the hallway until finally she stepped out into a large, open chamber.

She froze there, just inside the great, vast expanse of the room, nearly blinded by the vista that had opened up before her. The room was a treasure trove. The walls, the floors and every corner of the room were absolutely dripping with cultural riches. Paintings and furniture and rugs and sculptures and innumerable other bits and bobs of times long past—all of them items that had been denounced by Norsefire as the trappings of a vice-ridden society, summarily confiscated and _allegedly _destroyed.

As she took in Rembrandts and Renoirs, baroque tables and Victorian chaises, Buddhist statues and Hindu idols, a smile bloomed upon her lips—she'd never been happier to use the word allegedly as a qualifier before in her life.

The song changed then, slipping from smoky and sad to a livelier, faster tune from an entirely different era. Her smile widened as she immediately recognized the opening strains of David Bowie's Changes, and she began to walk slowly toward the old Wurlitzer tucked neatly into an alcove. Upon reaching it, murmuring the words of the song beneath her breath, she lifted a finger to lightly trace over the numbered keys of the jukebox, watching the record spin beneath the glass dome that crowned it.

"Turn and face the strange."

She jumped at the unexpected voice that sounded from behind her, quoting the lyrics even as they were sung. Spinning around quickly, her muscles automatically going rigid with fighting tension, she hissed as a particularly violent stab of pain shot through her shoulder. Black-gloved hands were upon her in an instant, steadying her with a gentle, but firm grip.

"You should not be up," V intoned gravely, a touch of admonishment in the words.

"I'm fine," she bit out, easing away from his grasp now that the pain had abated.

"Do not be ridiculous," he returned. "You have been unconscious for nearly forty-eight hours and while the wound on your head is mostly superficial and already healing nicely, the one in your shoulder is quite serious. I shall reiterate my earlier rebuke—you should not be up."

Catching onto the only words in that sentence that she considered important, Dara shut her eyes on a frown, wincing against another strong stab of pain. "I'm sorry. I must be hearing things." Her eyes reopened. "I could've sworn you just said I've been here for... "

"Two days, yes," V interrupted, hands folded in front of him. "Two days since you came to my aide at Jordan Tower and received those unfortunate and highly regrettable wounds in return," he sighed, "and three since my rashness nearly inflicted far more grievous injuries."

There was an apology implicit in his words, and a healthy dose of penitence along side that. Nevertheless, she bristled at the reminder of his interference, seeing again the broken halves of her beloved sword. "The cemetery," she said, voice hard. "You followed me, nearly got me killed," she paused, expression turning vicious, "and my sword is _broken_."

The accusations, leveled so cuttingly, stung. Lowering his eyes, V shook his head. "To the latter two charges, I have no defense. However, I harbor no regrets toward the first—I _had_ to follow you. Having delivered you home safely, my suspicions could not help but be aroused when you left again so quickly. I simply could not risk the possibility that you were moving to betray me."

"Betray you?" Dara's expression turned incredulous. "Betray you how exactly? I'd known you for barely more than an hour. I don't know anything specific about your plans and I know absolutely nothing about you yourself except that you wear a mask and that you call yourself V."

"Even the tiniest detail could be devastating if relayed to the correct ear," V returned, all calm in the face of her mounting temper. "As I said, I could not risk the betrayal."

In light of what he'd already done and moreso because of what he still planned to do, his wariness was logical. But Dara was in no mood for logic. "I didn't give you any reason not to trust me."

"No, you did not," the words were both admittance and affirmation. "Indeed, my every instinct _was_ to trust you."

"Then why didn't you?"

A long, pregnant pause fell hard upon the heels of that last question. Dara, eyes still flashing fire, stared with impatient expectance while V continued to stare right back at her.

"I have learned through hard experience that trust cannot simply be given—it must be earned. Only the worst sort of fool would have allowed himself to place such confidence in anyone after so short an acquaintance."

Again, there was unmistakable logic in his words, and this time, Dara could not, in good conscience, ignore it. She sighed, her anger melting away to leave her feeling curiously deflated. "Can't argue with you there," she murmured, eyes dropping away from his. "And if I'm being honest, I likely would've followed me too if I were you."

Her words eased a knot of tension that V hadn't even realized he'd been carrying, acting almost as a validation of his actions and leaving him feeling intensely relieved. Of course, there were still the rest of his actions to answer for…and the rest was so very much worse.

"Be that as it may," he said, "my behavior in the cemetery was inexcusable. I have fought enough battles of my own to know better than to do what I did. I can only beg your forgiveness for the lapse and tell you sincerely how very grateful I am that you suffered no injury because of it."

The fervent earnestness in his voice warmed her, leaving her feeling far more generous than she had only moments before. "Well, it might not be the best I've heard, but it'll do, I suppose. Apology accepted."

As if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, V straightened, the chin of the mask lifting as he sucked in a quick breath. "Thank you for that," he said gratefully. "It somehow means a very great deal to me."

Tension filled the space between them, making Dara distinctly uncomfortable. Shifting her gaze away from him, she grasped at the first—and most obvious—subject available for discussion. "What is this place anyway? Looks like a museum."

The change in subject was jarring, but V was as eager for it as she seemed to be. "And so it is, in its way. My own, private museum, if you will. I call it the Shadow Gallery."

"I can't believe all this survived the purges," she mused, considering. "Especially the religious stuff—that was the first stuff they confiscated. Where'd you get it all?"

"Here and there," he commented vaguely, relaxing as they moved into much safer waters of conversation. He reached out to draw a finger along the flank of a bronze horse. "And you are correct about it having been confiscated. The vaults of the Ministry of Objectionable Materials are a veritable cornucopia of just such treasures as these."

A single black brow arched high upon her forehead as Dara digested that bit of information. "You stole all of this from the Ministry of Objectionable Materials?"

"Certainly not," V shot back, sounding faintly annoyed by the accusation. "Stealing implies ownership—you cannot steal from the censor. I merely reclaimed these treasures—rescued them from the metaphorical dust bin, if you will."

"I think that might just be the best rationalization I've heard in a very long time," Dara said with a half-smile. "Don't quite know whether to be impressed or scared."

The mask half-turned back toward her. "If I had my pick of the two," he said lightly, "I should much prefer the former—no matter how appropriate the latter may be."

Dara's smile widened. "Well far be it from me to contradict the man who's saved my sorry self twice now—you can count me thoroughly impressed, V." She paused, the glint of light on steel catching her eye. Moving forward, she fingered the hilt of a sword lying upon the polished mahogany surface of the Edwardian occasional table beside him.

"I hope it is to your liking," V's voice hummed beside her. "I recognized the debt I owed you almost immediately, though I saw little opportunity to make good on it. However, with the change in circumstances, I thought it only right that I replace what my folly cost you."

Running an expert eye over the sword, she quickly recognized that not only was it of the highest quality Toledo steel, but also of extraordinary craftsmanship. This was no modern piece—this was a weapon that had been crafted when swordsmithing had been at its zenith. "This is for me?"

The pleased astonishment in her voice made him smile. "Indeed it is, my dear. I did not know your preferences, but I thought that the weight and style of this particular weapon seemed ideal for a lady of your skill."

Gently lifting the blade from the table with her good arm, she gave it an experimental flick. The balance was perfect, the weight—as V had noted—ideal for her arm. Twisting it up to examine the hilt closer, she nodded appreciatively. It was delicately wrought from the same steel as the sword and could only have been the work of a master cutler. All together, it was one of the most beautiful weapons she'd ever laid eyes on.

"Really, you shouldn't've gone to the trouble," she said at last, turning to him with a smile, "but thanks. This is a fantastic sword, V." She looked back at the sword again and her smile turned into a peevish frown. "Still can't believe I lost mine though," she snipped, "and to a bloody _cop_ no less."

Instantly perking up, V leapt upon the opportunity that her words afforded. "Yes…about that," he waited until she had turned again to look at him. "I confess that while I have my suspicions about your purpose that night, I hesitate to entertain them, lest they prove false. Might I ask…"

"…what I was doing in a cemetery at night?" Dara completed the question for him. "Yeah…sure you can ask."

There was a long pause, during which Dara stared at V expectantly. Finally, V gave a low chuckle. Stubborn girl—she was going to be difficult about it. "What were you doing in a cemetery at night?"

Dara sighed inwardly. She'd been hoping to avoid this subject.

_I'm gonna have to lie_.

She hadn't had a chance to discuss the situation with the group yet, and she was far too loyal to break their code of secrecy—even for him. To tell him the truth would be to give him power over them; and she wasn't willing to relinquish such power into his keeping yet.

Bothersome, that thought. Bothersome and troubling in a way that few thoughts had ever been before—too many implications peeked out from behind that _yet_; implications that frightened her simply because they _didn't _frighten her. _Too much, too fast,_ her mind whispered, almost panicked. She needed space to breathe, room to think, and this labyrinthine lair of his seemed unlikely to afford either.

"Might I offer an observation, my dear, before you answer?"

His voice surprised her, coming from much closer than she had expected. So lost in thought had she been that he'd moved to her side without her even noticing. Resisting the urge to take a step away from him, Dara met the black-screened eyes of the mask, determined not to show her inner turmoil. "What?"

"It is my experience," he said slowly, the words obviously chosen with care, "that the truth is quick on the tongue. Only lies require deep contemplation before being dispensed."

Angling now narrowed eyes up at him sharply, annoyance chipped away at the other, more disturbing emotions that had been plaguing her. Suddenly, she knew just what tack to take. "You want the truth?"

"I would not have asked the question if I did not."

"Then the truth it is," she said, her chin coming up defiantly. "But first, V, I want you to take off your mask."

His reaction was immediate, and exactly what she expected. His hands, which had been clasped calmly before him fell away to his sides, and he took an ungraceful, almost stumbling step away from her. "What?"

Dara shrugged carelessly. "You heard me. If you want the truth from me, then I want the truth from you. Show me your face."

She had thrown him, she could tell. In the nearly infinitesimal length of time that she'd known this man, he had never lacked the right words at the right time, always having an answer at the ready for any and every question. But now, his silence told her plainly that he had been wholly unprepared for such a turnabout.

"I have offered you no lies," he said at last, and the words were a thin veneer of anger over a much deeper undercurrent of absolute dread.

"Sure you have," Dara disagreed. "There're lots of different kinds of lies, V—and a lie of omission's still a lie. If you wanna know my secrets, then I wanna know yours."

He took another awkward step away, his entire posture screaming out his desire for escape. "Dara…please…"

"Please what? It's a simple enough equation—show me your face, and I'll tell you why I was in that cemetery. Tit for tat, yeah? Seems the only fair way to do the thing."

She waited, watching him and feeling his desperation though he gave no outward sign of being discomposed in the slightest. Finally, she decided she'd made her point.

Blowing out a breath, she lifted a hand to brush an errant strand of hair from her cheek. "Relax, V," she said, "I'm not gonna press the issue. Go on and keep your secrets." She paused, giving him a pointed look. "Just like I'll keep mine, yeah?"

Still nearly rigid with tension, V nonetheless managed a small nod. "Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face—terror, the human form divine, and secrecy the human dress."

Appropriate, that quote...but only in the context of the poem as a whole. A good thing she knew her Blake, or she probably wouldn't have known how to respond. "Yeah, but that's only half the story isn't it?" she said quietly. "Because if I recall correctly, mercy has a human heart; pity, a human face; love, the human form divine; and peace, the human dress."

"Of mercy, love and peace, I shall offer no opinion—believe of them what you will," he shot back, real anger resonating from the words. "But pity...n_ever_ speak to me of pity, Dara Turner. It is a word and a concept that I find singularly abhorrent."

Her own ire rising up to meet his, Dara glared at him. "If you wanna go and be particular about it, _I _didn't say anything about pity," she retorted, "Blake did. And don't you dare tell me what I can or can't say. I'll say whatever I bloody well please, whenever I bloody well please—it's a right I don't have in the every day world because of Norsefire; I _refuse_ to let the same be true where they can't hear me."

V went very still then, the allegation inherent in her words cutting. "You can muffle the drum," he said after a moment spent collecting himself, his voice rough and reedy, "and you can loosen the strings of a lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing?" Fawkes' grin turned toward the floor.

She didn't recognize the words, but she assumed that it was another quote. If she'd known she'd one day find herself in this situation, she might have taken more than just the one lit class during her brief flirtation with higher education. V, on the other hand, seemed to be a never ending font of literary references. If nothing else, he had one hell of a memory. And while she admired both his apparent brilliance and his stunning powers of recall, she also found herself violently irritated by his constant retreat behind the words of others.

Huffing, she turned sharply on her heel, her pain completely forgotten in the face of their exchange. She'd made it nearly to the hallway before his voice, still quiet, though strangely anxious stopped her. "Where are you going?"

Half turning back toward him, she shot him a glare. "To get my things," she answered frostily. "It's time I was going."

"Can I ask where?"

She paused, frowned. "Where d'you think? Home, of course."

"Do you really think that wise? They are looking for you, Dara…just as they are looking for me. They know where you work—they will certainly know where you live."

She hadn't thought of that—and suddenly remembered the certainty that had swept over her even as she'd rushed down the hallway outside her office toward that detective. "Oh bollocks," she spat, rolling her eyes in disgust, "I hadn't even thought of that. Why'd I attack that detective? What the bloody hell was I thinking?"

"You did only what you thought was right." V paused, clearly weighing his words carefully. "It was a good part of the reason why I simply could not, in good conscience, leave you there. I brought you here, to my home, because it was the only place that I knew would be safe."

Pinching the bridge of her nose wearily, Dara fought to keep her emotions under control. "And now I'm stuck here."

"I am sorry, my dear," he said, sounding almost sad, "but I could think of no alternative. Had I left you there, you would even now be in one of Creedy's interrogation cells." A pause. "Believe me, Dara," he said, voice strained, "I did not want this for either of us."

Her head lifted, blue eyes piercing his even through the mask. "How long?"

"Only until the Fifth—after that, I no longer think it will matter."

"The Fifth." Her lips thinned. "You mean next November," she said dully. "An entire year."

He sighed. "Forgive me, my dear…but I did not know what else to do."

The helpless confusion in that confession calmed any anger she might have otherwise felt. She could not deny that he had, by far, chosen the best possible course for her while she was unable to do so herself. And it was not so much the idea of spending a year in his company that disturbed her…it was the idea that Will and Liz would have no idea what had happened to her that was utterly unacceptable. No, not unacceptable—impossible! She simply could not disappear for an entire year without telling them _something_. Spurred by that knowledge, she made a quick decision.

"Fine," she said. "I can agree to that. Like you said—where else can I go? I won't put my friends in danger by asking them to take me in and my flat is definitely off limits to me now." She sighed. "But I need to leave for a few hours. I can't just disappear for an entire year without taking care of a few things first."

"While I understand the difficult and all together unenviable position you find yourself in, my dear, I am afraid that I must deny your request. It is a risk I cannot allow."

"Deny my request," Dara repeated, her voice cold. She narrowed her eyes in the sharpest look he'd yet received from her. "Seems you don't quite get it," she drawled, and there was fury in her gaze now. "I was doing you the courtesy of telling you what I'm gonna do, V. I wasn't asking your permission."

He shook his head. "You were not listening, Dara...it is a risk..."

"Risk?" she barked. "My whole life is risk, V."

An interesting admission. It added a bit more certainty to his suspicions about her, but ultimately did nothing to change his mind. "Be that as it may, my dear—I was not speaking of the risk such foolishness posed to your own person, but rather, the risk that it poses to my purpose."

"Last I checked, we've already been over this—you've got no reason not to trust me. And while I can appreciate that you've gotta keep both your plan and your location secret, I'm not gonna let you make me a hostage because of it."

"And how exactly would you stop me if I chose to do so?"

The question fell into the room like a boulder into a pond, sending shockwaves through the sudden stillness.

"If I didn't already know that staying here's the only option I've got, you would've just made up my mind not to." Dara leveled a look of pure disgust at him. "It's called hypocrisy, V; I'm sure you've got a dictionary lying about the place somewhere, so look it up while I'm gone, yeah?" She turned away again, disappearing down the hall.

V stared after her, her parting jibe, painful to the extreme, still stinging his ears and his conscience. In his mind, a war raged—the cold calculation of his reason opposed diametrically to the unfamiliar vulnerability of his budding admiration for her. To let her go, even for a few hours, would be to not only risk every plan he had…it would also mean a bestowal of his trust upon her. How could he possibly consider such a step?

But conversely, how could he possibly hold her here against her will? It would be, as she pointed out, the epitome of hypocrisy. What sort of freedom fighter would he be if he, in turn, robbed her of her freedom?

Well, there was that decision made.

V dropped heavily into the elegant Federal style chair tucked away in the alcove opposite the Wurlitzer. When she emerged, he would show her to the door. This place would be a haven to her, not a prison—he'd had his belly full of prisons for this lifetime.

Yes, he would show her out. He would watch her walk away, the fate of his revolution in her hands—and he would trust her to return once she had done what needed doing. It would be one of the hardest things he had ever endured, but endure it he would. Because, deep down, beneath a lifetime of pain, anger, hatred and distrust—he did so _want_ to believe in her.

It was foreign. It was alien. It was foolish—yes, above all, completely and utterly foolish. But it was the _right_ decision to make.

"My mind misgives some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin this fearful date," he whispered into the now oppressively silent room. An image of pale blue eyes, flashing indignantly danced across his mind's eye, and his lips curved into a wry smile behind the mask. "But he that hath steerage of my course…direct my sail."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter 6**

Dara Turner was not a shoe woman.

She was, in fact, one of those rare women who refused to sacrifice comfort for style. That did not, however, mean that she was prepared to walk around in old lady orthopedic s either. Thus, she was notorious amongst those friends she did have for being an absolute terror to go shoe shopping with. It generally took several stores and more than several hours before she found a pair that lived up to her rigorous standards.

When she did manage to ferret out a brand and style that managed to be both comfy _and _chic, she generally made a point of buying every pair she could get her hands on.

The boots that she'd worn to work two days ago had epitomized that buying tactic. They were tall, they were elegant, they were black and—most importantly of all—they fit like an absolute dream. The only minor complaint she had about them was that the zips were rather stiff, making them a bit of a challenge to get on.

Now, sitting on the bed she had awoken in, her coat and bag draped across her lap, Dara glared daggers at the boots as they lay innocently atop one another on the rug beneath her feet. That minor complaint had suddenly turned into an enormous one.

It was such a small, ordinary thing, putting on shoes. Millions of people did it every day without giving it a moments thought. However, now that something once so easily managed had proven a task to great to be executed alone, Dara found herself developing a whole new respect for the process.

Because she'd never felt quite so helpless in her entire life as she did at that very moment.

And she had tried. For several long minutes, she had twisted and turned and wrestled and leaned and just _tried_ to get one of those boots on and zipped. But each successive bend, each tentative wiggle, had resulted in nothing more than piercing pain and choking frustration—until, finally, she'd tossed the offending boot back to the floor beside its mate.

It all came down to simple logistics, really. Putting on these boots required the full use of two fully functional arms. The still healing bullet wound to her shoulder left her one arm short of that requirement.

And besides, all the bending and struggling was further aggravating her already pounding headache.

Thus, two possibilities loomed before her. Either she was walking to Will and Liz's in her socks—or she was going to have to ask for help. From V. From the man who had just threatened, in his own elegant, inestimable way, to hold her hostage—to keep her locked up here for the next year.

Anger heated to boiling yet again by the mere remembrance of his callous words, she pushed herself to her feet, sliding her coat on with a grimace before bending down to scoop up her boots with her good hand.

Socks it would be.

*

When she emerged from the hallway, V immediately stood. The sight of him brought Dara to a halt, and she cocked her head to the side, expression neutral though her eyes held a challenge that he could read even across the distance between them.

"Gonna try and stop me, then?"

His eyes on the boots dangling from her hand, V shook his head. "No. You are free to go." His gaze shifted to her face. "I…trust that you will not betray me."

One perfectly sculpted black brow lifted, though she managed to reign in the full measure of her surprise. "Really? Interestin' turnabout—where'd it come from?"

"My conscience hath a thousand several tongues," he said, sounding defeated, "and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain."

Another quote. Another calculated evasion. Dara shook her head, wondering if he even realized he did it. "You know, V," she said, sounding far more tired than annoyed, "while I can't help but be impressed, the quoting's gettin' a bit old."

His head cocked to the side, and she could tell that she had surprised him. "I had thought you admired the Bard."

"I do," Dara affirmed, "but that doesn't mean I wanna hear him spouted at me constantly—'specially not when we're in the middle of a serious conversation."

Genuinely baffled, V shook his head. "If what I wish to say has already been said, and said far better than I ever could, why not utilize it? Why even attempt to better it?"

"Because," Dara snapped harshly and far too quickly—it was only after the word was out that she realized she had absolutely nothing to follow it with. "Because..." She stopped, lips narrowing into something that was half a grimace and half a frown. "…because…it's…rude," she finished lamely.

She decided to pretend that the choked sound that came from behind the mask was not a laugh. Rushing to fill the silence before his next words could prove her wrong, she lifted her head challengingly. "I should really be goin' now, V."

"Yes," he said, amusement coloring his tone as he took a step toward her, "you likely should...but first..."

A light tug drew her attention away from his face. Looking down sharply, she frowned at the black gloved hand wrapped around the boots dangling from her fingers. Shifting her glance up to the grin of the masked man who owned it, she pulled the boots from his grasp. "Don't recall askin' for your help."

"No, you did not. But you cannot walk across London barefoot. Do not be so foolish as to reject my aide simply because your pride rails against it."

She turned her eyes away from his gentle scold in embarrassment. "I'm not barefoot," she muttered.

"Socks are not shoes," he retorted with infuriatingly unassailable logic. "Now do stop arguing with me and sit down. The longer you fight me in this, the longer it shall take for you to be there and back again."

This time when he pulled on the boots, she let them go and dropped into the chair he had vacated upon her reemergence into the room. The color still high upon her cheeks, she looked up at him standing over her and then quickly looked away. "This round to you," she mumbled, adjusting uncomfortably against the damask seat.

He had knelt and was lowering the zip on the first boot before he glanced up at her. "You make it sound as if we were competing, my dear."

Retreating behind sarcasm, Dara rolled her eyes. "You don't think we are? Seems all we've done since I woke up is lob words back and forth like we were at bloody Wimbledon."

V smiled behind the mask. "If that is the case, then I am glad I had the good fortune to be paired with such a worthy opponent—lift your foot, my dear," he slid the first boot on and raised the zip with deft fingers. "To be perfectly honest, though," he continued, "while I will admit that the comparison is rather apt, I do not like to think of you as an adversary, Dara. Tell me, is that truly how you think of me—as a foe to be defeated?"

He was on to the second boot now, the first firmly secured upon her foot. The question had been a little too casual, telling her clearly that her answer meant a great deal more to him than he would admit.

Eyes upon the mask that was tilted down and away from her, Dara wondered how to answer. The easy answer—especially at that moment—was a resounding _yes_. The problem was, she was beginning to understand that there was no such thing as an easy answer when it came to this man. With V, questions were more than they appeared and words held a deeper, more meaningful purpose—which made answers terribly tricky things.

It was frustrating, infuriating and charming all at once—but it had been a long afternoon, her arm felt like it was about to fall off, her head was throbbing mercilessly, and she was simply too tired for another verbal sparring match.

"No," she said at last, lifting her other foot into the second boot at his silent signal. "At least…not all the time. And to tell the truth," she added, "I actually sort of enjoy arguing with you. I'm sorry if you don't."

He didn't say anything to that, attention seemingly devoted to zipping up her boot. Once he had finished, he rocked back on his heels, the blank, black eyes of the mask lifting to hers. "I never said that I didn't," he admitted quietly.

The atmosphere had turned heavy yet again, the silence once more pregnant with what she could only describe as possibilities...and it made her distinctly uncomfortable. Almost leaping to her feet, Dara neatly sidestepped his crouched form. "I really do need to get goin' now."

Slowly, V stood, and she could feel the weight of his gaze resting heavily upon her. Then, the moment was over and he was beside her, arm extended toward one of the myriad corridors opening up off the main chamber. "Come, my dear," he said quietly. "I will show you out."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: ****Apologies for the delay, but I was bitten by the flu bug.**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Seven**

By the time Dara made it to Will and Liz's, she could barely stand. It had been a long walk. Most of it had been underground, V having pointed out quite sensibly that walking the streets of London in broad daylight was likely _not _a good idea. He had accompanied her all the way to the tunnel opening nearest to Will and Liz's home, leaving her there with a curt goodbye and directions on how to find her way back to the Gallery.

She'd done a creditable job of hiding her mounting exhaustion from her companion, though she rather suspected that he'd been more aware of her flagging strength than he'd let on. At least, the bracing hand he'd placed beneath her elbow on more than one occasion had certainly seemed to imply that he'd known something was wrong.

To her relief, he hadn't pressed the issue. He had simply disappeared back the way they'd come.

The rest of the trip had been agony. The pain in her head and shoulder combined into a single throbbing ache that reverberated out to every corner of her body and left her stomach roiling and her vision blurry. She'd tripped several times, but had managed to keep herself upright…for the most part. One particularly bad stumble had sent her careening into a wall, her shoulder connecting solidly with uneven brick.

It had hurt. A lot.

It had also reopened the bullet wound in her shoulder—she'd felt the warm stickiness of the blood, and was very, very thankful that she had her coat to conceal the damage.

The sight of the Price's front door had been one of the most beautiful she'd ever seen. Dragging herself up the front steps, she abandoned the idea of digging for her keys, and simply leaned on the bell. When the door finally opened, it was to the sight of Rose Price's wide brown eyes.

"Oh my God, Dara," she breathed, "you're alive!"

"For the most part," she said, attempting a smile that fell quickly into a grimace. "A bit of help, please, luv?"

"Oh my God," Rose repeated, darting out to wrap an arm around Dara's waist, offering a shoulder to her injured friend. Once inside, she kicked the door closed behind her.

"Rose? Who was it?"

Liz's voice—tight with concern.

"It's Dara, Mum," Rose shouted back. "She's hurt."

Liz's graying head popped over the banister on the second floor, hazel eyes quickly assessing the situation. "First aid kit?"

Dara nodded weakly, regretting the instinctive movement as pain shot through her skull. "Yeah…I think the bandages need changing."

"Right," she replied, disappearing from view again.

"Come on, Dara," Rose urged, "let's get you to the couch."

It was barely a minute later that Liz came charging down the stairs, first aid kit and clean cloths in hand. Setting the supplies down on the coffee table, she leapt forward to help Rose get Dara's coat off. Once it was, and Dara had collapsed onto the couch, the Professor went to work.

"I'd say the bandages need changing," she grumbled, peeling away the old dressings from Dara's shoulder, "you've bled clear through two layers of gauze and three layers of cotton. It's a wonder you haven't passed out from blood loss."

Dara cracked a grin at the sharpness of her tone, the entire scene so familiar that it was somehow comforting. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that, but it was a long walk to get here. Bloody thing was fine till a few blocks back. Got a bit tired and took a bit of a tumble…the shoulder didn't like that very much at all."

"A long walk," Liz repeated, brow furrowed in a wince of empathy once she'd uncovered the wicked looking wound. "A long walk from where, may I ask? Just exactly where the hell have you been, Dara Turner? Last we heard of you was that call the other night, which you had to cut short—and then, not a word from you! We've been worried sick!"

Barking out a laugh—just as much from the blessed familiarity of Liz's scolding as from the enormous wave of relief that washed over her. They didn't know—which meant that Norsefire hadn't released her identity yet. And that meant that she would be able to tell Will and Liz about the situation herself, with as much or as little detail as she saw fit. "If it's any consolation, this," she gestured weakly at her head and shoulder, "has absolutely nothing to do with the other night in the cemetery."

"Really?" Liz eyed the shoulder wound warily. "Because this looks very much like a bullet wound. If you didn't get it the other night, I would very much like to know what the hell you've been up to since then."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Dara winced as the antiseptic made contact with her skin. "Would you accept 'my own stupidity' as an answer?"

"Only if you'll accept my foot up your ass in reply."

Dara snorted out a laugh, then winced again, even as she cast about for some sort of distraction from one of the many topics she did not want to delve into quite yet—she only wanted to tell the whole story once, and Will wouldn't be home from work for another few hours. "Not to change the subject, but I need to apologize to you for something, Professor."

"And what would that be?"

A sigh. "My sword," she said quietly, guilt thick in her tone. "The other night in the cemetery, a cop got hold of it. He jabbed, I ducked, and it went straight into the wall of a crypt behind me—snapped the blade in two."

Not caring in the least about the loss of the weapon—weapons, unlike people, were easily replaced—Liz's eyes narrowed at the more important implications of that statement. "How exactly did a cop get that sword away from you? I haven't seen you disarmed in years."

_Oh Christ_, _I've taken myself out of the frying pan and into the bloody fire._ "It wasn't my fault," she said quickly.

A blonde brow arched. "Not your fault?"

"No," Dara insisted petulantly. "I was distracted."

"Distracted?"

Dara's eyes glared daggers at her elder. "What're you—a bloody parrot?"

"I'm sorry," Liz said, sounding anything but. She continued to wipe at the shoulder wound with an antiseptic soaked cloth, "but you're just not making any sense. I've seen you fight three cops _while_ arguing with Will about the relative merits of punk versus new wave—so forgive me if I find the explanation that this all happened because you were _distracted_ a little hard to believe."

Sighing, Dara closed her eyes, exhaustion beginning to take a firm grip on her. "If you knew what the distraction was, you'd understand."

Something in her voice must have been telling, because Liz and Rose exchanged glances over her head.

"Hey, Dara," Rose said, reaching out to collect the discarded bandage from the table. She held it up, eyeing the length of gauze purposefully. "Your _distraction…_did he happen to be the one to doctor you up?"

Dara's stomach tightened into knots at Rose knowing tone. Opening her eyes and schooling her features carefully, Dara quickly scanned the faces of both mother and daughter. Did they know after all?

She eyed both of them speculatively for a moment, and then dismissed the idea outright. There was no way they knew the whole truth—Liz would have ripped her to shreds already if they did. They may well suspect that she had been in the company of a man that night…but they certainly had no idea who that man might be.

"That's none of your business," she replied, keeping her tone as light as possible.

Mother and daughter exchanged another look.

"Ah, I see," Liz said, smiling easier now as she began to redress the wound, "So come on, then," she prodded gently, "details, my girl! Did this distraction take you back to his place for a little…" she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, "TLC?"

_Oh, professor_, _if you only knew…_

"A lady," Dara said, feigning affront, "doesn't speak of such things."

Snorting, Rose walked toward the kitchen to throw away the soiled bandages. "Then you should have no problem telling us all the juicy details," she quipped, "because there's not a single _lady_ in this house."

"Sad to say," Liz shook her head, "but she has a point."

"Yeah," Dara agreed, "but I'm still not saying a word." She leaned further into the cushions, allowing her eyes to slip closed. "God, I'm tired."

Concern creased Liz's forehead. "After I finish dressing this," she said resolutely, "you're going straight upstairs and lying down. You look terrible."

"Thanks ever so," Dara grumbled. She knew time was of the essence, but right now, she needed sleep more than anything else. "But yeah…a nap sounds bloody fantastic."

Liz pinned Dara with a sharp look. "And after you've had that nap, I'll be expecting the details you've worked so hard to keep from me," she said with a smirk. "Don't think you're going to escape telling me all about this new distraction of yours, my girl."

Dara pushed herself up off the couch with a groan. "Never really thought I would," she said as she shuffled off toward the stairs. She paused and shot a grin at Liz. "Though I sort of hoped I might."

Moving to help her, Liz wrapped an arm around her protégé's waist to help her up the stairs. "Not on your life," she retorted, also grinning.

"Yeah…figured." Dara sobered a bit as they approached the top of the steps. "I am sorry that you and Will had to worry. I should've called."

"Yes, you should have," Liz said frostily. "But don't be sorry now, Dara. Save that for when Will gets home—because he won't be half as nice about it as I've been."

*

Dara woke several hours later to the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. Smiling, she counted down the seconds until her door was thrown open, completely unsurprised to see Will's unmistakable outline backlit by the hall light. Easing herself up, she smiled at him. "Hallo, warden."

He was across the room in a heartbeat, pulling her into a gentle hug. "You scared the absolute hell out of me," he breathed into her hair.

Leaning into the comfort of his embrace, Dara closed her eyes. "Sorry about that."

Will pulled back from her just enough to meet her eyes. "Promise me you'll never do anything so bloody stupid again."

"I didn't do anything stupid," she defended. "I did what needed doing. Didn't Liz tell you?"

"She told me," Will affirmed. "She told me your new bloke nearly got you killed. I hope the sorry bugger was thoroughly ashamed of himself for getting in the way."

The assessment was lacking, but given what information he had, she couldn't reproach him for it.

"That's not exactly how it happened," she said carefully, "but you're right about that last bit." She smiled again, ignoring the flutter of discomfort that rose up from allowing the misconception that V was 'her new bloke' to stand. "He was thoroughly penitent."

"Good." Releasing her, Will stood up. "When I meet the tosser, I'll have a few choice words to say on the subject though…so be warned."

There was no point in arguing, so Dara only shrugged. "If that ever happens," she mused, envisioning the scenario in her head, "I think you'd be surprised how well he could stand up to it. In fact, he'd probably give more than a few words right back. And his would likely be even choicer than yours."

"I see." Will watched her closely, noting the distant look in her eyes. "Good with words, is he?"

Dara's smile widened. "You could say that, yeah."

"I could say a lot of other things as well," he retorted. "Not least of which being 'Oi! Idiot…next time your woman's fighting to the death, stay the fuck outta the way or I'll rip your knackers off an' stuff 'em in your ears.'"

Dara laughed outright at that, imaging just how that mask would tilt in response to such a statement. "I think that might just be the most brilliant mental image I've ever had, Will."

"I live to please," Will said, grinning at her. "And now, before I forget…I'm to tell you that dinner is ready. Do you feel up to coming downstairs?"

Pushing the covers off, Dara slid her legs off the bed. "I'm starving," she admitted, only then realizing that it had been some time since she'd last eaten. "What's on the menu?"

Will grimaced. "Liz cooked," he reminded her, "which means, don't ask, don't tell, and just pray it's edible."

Swatting his arm playfully, Dara moved past him toward the door. "That's your wife you're talking about," she scolded. "The love of your utterly useless life."

"That she is," he grumbled, trailing after her, "but that doesn't make her cooking taste any better though, does it?"

*

Dinner, as it turned out, was a moderately edible concoction of meat and potatoes. Frankly, Dara doubted anyone could have done better; the rations they were allotted were barely fit for consumption much of the time.

She'd told them during a lull in the conversation.

At least, she'd told them all they needed to know—she'd gotten herself into a spot of trouble and felt that it would be best if she disappeared for a bit; lay low until the situation had blown over. She'd decided that there was no need to tell them _all_ of the details, as she suspected they might do something drastic to keep her from following through on her plans to leave. Knowing them as she did—especially Will—she wouldn't put it past them to lock her in her room for the next year rather than let her go back to V.

As V had pointed out, Norsefire already knew who she was and where she worked. It wouldn't be hard for them to find out about her connection to Will and Liz—and she wasn't about to put them in any more danger.

It had gone over about as well as she'd expected, which of course meant, not at all. Will, as anticipated, had voiced the loudest objections.

A sharp reminder that she was an adult now and more than capable of taking care of herself silenced the majority of the opposition. Silenced it, but did not eliminate it.

She could still feel it simmering just beneath the surface.

After dinner, the four of them settled in their habitual places in the living room—Will and Liz on the couch, Dara in the chair beside it, and Rose stretched out on the floor in front of the television. Dara had spent more evenings than she count in just this way. Generally, they watched old movies—banned and highly illegal remnants of pre-Norsefire culture—simply because the state-sponsored programming was so awful.

"So what movie are we watching tonight?"

Will, remote in hand, shook his head. "Sorry, luv—no movie tonight," he corrected, "there's too much going on, and even if it is complete crap most of the time, the BTN's the only news source we've got."

Stomach tying itself into knots, Dara swallowed hard against the lump of fear that had settled just at the back of her throat. "You're actually gonna watch the evening news?"

Liz nodded. "Not like us, I know. But after what happened…"

"Christ, I didn't even think," Will interrupted, leaning forward to nudge Dara's good arm. "Did you hear about what happened before you went out of service, luv?"

She would have laughed, but thought that it might sound odd in light of the circumstances. "If you're talking about what happened to the Old Bailey, then yeah…I heard. Bit of a shock, wasn't it?"

Liz snorted indelicately. "You make it sound like a strong wind came by and blew it down," she shook her head. "The bloody thing was blasted sky high by about five tons of fertilizer bombs while the 1812 Overture blared in the background. I think that qualifies as more than just a bit of a shock, don't you?"

Cocking her head back toward them, Rose grinned. "The fireworks were brilliant, though."

Dara suppressed another grin, offering silent agreement—if the world were a different place, V could have made a fortune as a pyrotechnician.

"And then," Liz continued, "after what happened at Jordan Tower…we just really don't think we can afford to _not_ watch the news anymore."

Feigning ignorance, Dara gave them her best, most innocent look. "What happened at Jordan Tower?"

Three heads turned toward her, the same silent disbelief reflected in each of their faces. "What? What'd I miss?"

"What did you…?" Will echoed. "Bloody hell, Dara, you really _were_ out of it, weren't you?" He reached for the remote. "Didn't you see his speech?"

Still pretending to have no idea what they were talking about, Dara gave them a wide-eyed look of confusion. "Speech? Did Sutler give another address?"

"No—not our _great_ leader," the sarcasm was thick in Liz's voice, and the accompanying eye roll left absolutely no doubt as to her true opinion of the High Chancellor. "You mean you really don't know? You work at the BTN so I assumed you would have heard all about it."

"No," Dara gestured toward her bandaged head and shoulder, lying through her teeth in a way that was at once both alarmingly easy and distinctly uncomfortable. "I've been a bit distracted, y'see...what with the severe injuries and all."

"Bloody glad I was recording Storm Saxon, then," Will said, remote at the ready. "Got the whole thing on disc. Be interesting to hear your take on it."

"Hang on," Rose interjected, pointing at the screen. "They're talking about it now."

Dara turned to look at the television praying that she didn't see her face plastered across the screen—talk about an explanation she did _not_ want to make. The picture in the left hand corner, just above the anchorwoman's shoulder, while not her, still caught her attention. "Turn it up."

"…_authorities are still looking for anyone with any information regarding the terrorist known only as V, who is responsible not only for the destruction of the Old Bailey, but also for the hijacking of the BTN on the morning of November Fifth, and for the illegal and highly seditious broadcast that followed. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of this most vicious and dangerous of criminals, you are asked to report it to the proper authorities immediately_."

"Bloody hell," Dara said, trying to sound surprised. "Someone hijacked the BTN?"

"It's what they just said, isn't it? Having hearing problems over there?"

Dara narrowed her eyes at him, hoping she looked more offended than she actually was. "I'm sorry it's taking me a bit longer than normal to twig onto everything, warden, but I'm doing my best and I'd really appreciate it if you'd lay off, yeah?"

Will was staring at her askance, his look calculating. She'd seen that look before and went back over her words in her head, trying and failing to figure out what she'd said to incite his suspicions.

After a long moment during which the living room was far too silent, Dara blew out a breath of frustration. "Were you gonna show me what you're talking about or not?"

Will arched a dark brow at her. "I dunno…you may not be up for it," he snarked, "it's a bit deep, y'see. Not easily _twigged_, if y'know what I mean."

Oh yes, he _definitely _suspected something—she knew that tone of voice. She gave him a look that was supposed to be bland, but ended up more challenging. "Just play the bloody thing, Will."

If he knew there was more going on than she was saying, he made no comment about it, though he did mash the play button a bit harder than strictly necessary, she noted.

Dara sat perched on the edge of her seat, eyes on the screen, eager to see and hear the broadcast again. V had said a lot during those few minutes of stolen air time, and she hadn't been able to fully appreciate it, distracted as she'd been. Now though, she could turn her full attention to it.

When the recording ended and the image of V was swallowed by the hiss and pop of static, Dara sighed. It was such an enormous undertaking, this path he'd set for himself. She couldn't help but wonder just how much planning had gone into it so far…and how much more was left to be done in preparation for its final stages. She was suddenly excited about the prospect of returning to the Shadow Gallery—he may well be able to use her help, and she was more than willing to give it.

"Dara? You all right over there?"

Rousing herself from her thoughts, she turned her head toward Will. "What?"

"I asked if you were ok." He hit the stop button on the disc player. "You seem a little upset."

"Upset?" Dara's eyes widened at the suggestion, genuinely surprised that she had given that impression. "Why would I be upset? Didn't you hear him? Didn't you listen? He's planning to take down Norsefire."

"Yeah," Liz sat up straighter, "we caught that. Problem is—what exactly does that mean? I mean, it's exactly what we've been fighting for all these years…but I don't see how blowing up buildings is going to accomplish anything."

"Not by itself, obviously," Dara turned fully toward them, unable to hide her enthusiasm. "But I'm willing to bet that he's got a lot more up his sleeve than fertilizer bombs," she stopped, considered, then grinned, "though I wouldn't be surprised if we haven't seen the last of those either. Point is, he's actually gonna do this thing, y'know? He's actually gonna give them a real fight—and with as complacent as the bastards have gotten over the past twenty years, I think he might actually be able to win!"

"Don't get me wrong," Rose spoke up for the first time. "I mean, I hate living like this as much as anyone, and hey—a little revolution? Sign me up and I'll put on my little black beret and make with the rebelling. I'd be out working with you lot every night if mum and dad would let me. But honestly, Dara…this bloke seems a bit of a nutter to me."

Dara's head whipped around, frowning at the teenager. "He's not insane," she snapped. "He's brilliant! And when he does it—when he brings down Norsefire—then you'll be singing a different tune."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to yank them right back in. She'd been far too overzealous in her defense of V, and now Will was looking at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted wings and a tail.

_Subtle, Turner_, she berated herself. _Real fucking subtle._

"Tell me, luv…did that shot to the head rattle your brain?" Will was almost glaring at her. "Because you're acting mental, Dara—absolutely bloody mental."

Dara caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it nervously. She was doing a lousy job of keeping her secrets secret so far. She offered the room at large a tentative smile, trying desperately to save face. "Sorry," she murmured. "It's just...freedom," she breathed. "Real, Gods-honest freedom…we've been fighting for it for so long now, and we're nowhere near close to making it happen. But this V…he sounds like he might actually be able to do it."

The tension in the room immediately eased off a few notches. Liz leaned back against the couch and Rose turned her eyes back to the telly. Dara tried to do the same, but could feel Will's eyes on her still, his suspicion palpable.

_Stupid, sodding cow_, she snarked to herself, trying desperately to ignore the weight of Will's penetrating gaze. _Why don't you just draw them a bloody map, with a big, red V marking the spot?_

It was ridiculous and completely out of character for her emotions to get the better of her, and she was fairly certain that V was fully to blame for the change. She'd trained herself not to feel too deeply anymore—partly because of the state of the world she lived in and partly because of the work she did once the sun went down—but she could feel the mortar used in the construction of those self-erected barriers beginning to crumble.

And she wasn't sure how she felt about that yet.

But now was hardly the time to contemplate the intricacies of her psyche. It was getting late, Will was looking at her as if she was a stranger and her shoulder was beginning to ache again. All in all, Dara thought it was time to take her leave before anything else could go wrong.

"It's time I was going." Dara rose from her seat and moved toward the stairs. "I don't fancy being caught out after curfew tonight."

Will snorted. "Oh, _now _you're worried about curfew! Why? It's never stopped you before."

She paused on the first step, looking back at him with a small shrug. "Yeah well, this isn't before, is it?" she said quietly. "This is now. And things have changed."

She was up the stairs then, ignoring any further comments leveled at her on the subject. She needed to go. The longer she spent in their company, the more questions they were going to ask, and the more dangerous things could become. Because truth, in this case, was the enemy—an enemy that she would protect them from at all costs.

Eventually, once whatever was to come had come, she would tell them everything. But for now, they had gotten all she was willing to give. Five minutes later, she was back down the stairs, the duffel slung over her good shoulder packed full to bursting with the extra clothes she always kept at their place in case of emergencies or late nights spent training.

Will eyed the bag dubiously. "I thought you said you'd only be gone a couple of days. And just where exactly are you swanning off to anyway?"

"Oh, I won't be far," she replied vaguely. "And I just figured I'd bring all I could, yeah? Being prepared, and all that."

"Look, Dara, if this is just some excuse to run off and spend a bit of quality time with your new someone, tell us. All this overdramatic, cloak and dagger nonsense is making me nervous."

"You can call me overdramatic all you like," Dara pushed up on her toes, placing a light peck on Will's cheek. "But the fact of the matter is that I'm going, and I've a lot of very good reasons why." She paused, smiling up at him. "Do me a favor though, warden…take care of yourself while I'm away. Don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

She stepped away from him, turning to Liz and Rose. "Or to either of you." She hugged each one in turn. "I'll miss you all."

The door had closed behind her before any of them had a chance to respond, to reciprocate—to even fully process the fact that she was leaving.

"I've got a terrible feeling," Will said, half-angry, half-sad, "that she won't be back through that door for a very long time, despite what she says."

Liz sidled up next to him, arms going about his waist, head leaning into his shoulder. "So I'm not the only one who thinks the whole, 'laying low for a few days' bit was absolute bollocks then?"

Rose, whose attention had been grabbed by the television, made a strangled sound of shock, drawing looks from both her mother and father. "She wasn't lying about laying low," Rose said, "but you're right that it's gonna be for a lot longer than a few days. Look."

Liz and Will turned to see what she was talking about and both felt their hearts drop into their stomachs at the sight that greeted their eyes. For there, staring back at them from the screen was Dara's unmistakable image—clearly taken from one of the CCTV cameras that surrounded the city—walking swiftly down the street beside another, also unmistakable image.

The anchor's words echoed through the silent room.

"…_If you have any information as to the whereabouts of this woman, the suspected accomplice of the terrorist known only as V and identified by authorities as one Dara Turner, you are urged to contact your local constabulatory immediately."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Eight**

The walk felt even longer the second time around.

Her shoulder was throbbing, her head ached and the news report she'd heard blaring from the open window of one of the brownstones near Liz and Will's had left her nervous and twitchy.

She was, officially, a wanted woman.

Lovely.

On the bright side, she not only had a relatively well developed sense of direction but was also quite familiar with the neighborhood, so finding her way back to the entrance to V's realm was a fairly simple and thankfully swift process.

The steps leading down to the old tube station were boarded up and very clearly marked as being off limits—all of the old tube stations had received similar treatment when Sutler had ordered the Underground closed down nearly two decades prior. The entirety of subterranean London had been placed under strict quarantine due to contamination by an unknown biological agent. And in light of the virulence of the St. Mary's virus, no one had ever considered questioning the official story. Even the group Dara belonged to had never dared breech the tunnel system, despite its manifest charms as a secret meeting spot.

Now, knowing the contamination yarn for the lie that it was, Dara found herself pondering the possibilities. Judging by the state of the Gallery, V had been living down there for quite a long time. Judging also by the sheer enormity of the firepower that had been used to bring down the Old Bailey, he had also been amassing one hell of an arsenal for himself. If that had just been the beginning…what the hell else did he have hidden down in the depths of the tunnels?

The sound of a car horn blowing a few blocks away broke her from her reverie and she looked around for any prying eyes before pulling back the loose board that V had held open for her earlier. There were none, of course. This particular entrance was well out of the common way, tucked into a corner on a street full of old, abandoned buildings. There were increasingly larger numbers of streets just like this all over London—economic prosperity had suffered as much as everything else under Norsefire's influence.

England had once been a leader in the world market, a giant of commerce. Now, it was held up as a cautionary tale.

It was a depressing thought.

However, she really didn't have time to stand there contemplating the sad, fucked up world that she lived in. She was wasting time that would be far better spent getting out of sight.

Dara reached down to pull aside the loose board, hissing with discomfort. She straightened, shifted her duffel higher up onto her good shoulder and then stepped down into the darkness. Reaching into the pocket of her coat, she pulled out the torch she'd nicked from beneath the sink in Rose's bathroom. It had been an impulse that she was imminently grateful for now, because even with the thin beam of light dancing off the concrete in front of her, the darkness was still overwhelming.

Very overwhelming.

When she was younger, she'd suffered from a crippling fear of the dark. As most people do, she'd managed to outgrow the fear for the most part, though it still reared its ugly, paralyzing head from time to time.

This, apparently, was one of those times.

There was cold sweat on her brow and a familiar tightness in her chest. Her breaths came in short, shaky gasps and she could feel the panic beginning to gnaw at the spot just beneath her sternum.

It was the very last thing she needed at that moment, and she categorically refused to give in to it.

"You will _not _do this," she hissed into the gloom. "Not now."

She closed her eyes, sucked in a few long, slow breaths and used every spare shred of self-control she could dredge up to calm herself down. After a few moments, she felt sufficiently in control and opened her eyes.

The panic was still there, but subdued behind a wall of sheer determination. Directing the beam of torchlight in front of her once more, she started forward again. It had been, more or less, a straight shot from the door of the Gallery to the entrance to the street, and she felt reasonably certain that she could remember what few turns there had been, so she just kept moving. She would find the door.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

It was very slow going, her gait dragging more and more as the minutes ticked by; the duffel weighed her down a little more with every step she took, until it began to feel like a lead weight. Deep, rhythmic breaths calmed her; steadied her. She focused on the regular inhalations and exhalations, pushing everything else to the back of her thoughts. Pain didn't matter now—only movement.

Of course, had she been slightly less single-minded in her focus on breathing—had she listened a little closer, watched a little more carefully—she might have been able to prevent what came next…

The initial impact was shocking; the one that followed, devastating. The first, she had immediately recognized as that of flesh upon flesh; the second, flesh against unforgiving stone. Had she not been in darkness already, she knew that she would have been now. Pain exploded behind her eyes as her skull collided with the wall behind her. But that pain quickly faded into the periphery as another, much more pressing issue presented itself—the impact with the wall had knocked all the air from her lungs...

...and the hand that had wrapped around her throat was swiftly taking a bad situation and making it unbearably worse…

"Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread…"

V's low growl filled her ears like a ray of sunshine through cloudy skies, and she fought desperately to suck enough air into her lungs to make her identity known. Inwardly cursing herself for being foolish enough to wait until after dark to venture into the territory of such a man, she forced herself to relax in his grasp.

"V…s'me…" she gasped out finally. "...s'Dara…"

Instantly, the pressure on her throat disappeared. The suddenness of the release, combined with the pain and the exhaustion, caused her knees to buckle, and she collapsed forward. Mentally bracing herself for yet another agonizing jolt, she was pleasantly surprised when, instead, two strong arms caught her in mid-descent.

"Dara..." V's pained voice sounded from somewhere above her. "Forgive me…I…you were away for so long that I did not believe you intended to return."

"Told you...I would...didn't I? I'm…no…liar. And besides...where else... was I gonna go?" she responded as sharply as she could. "'Specially...now. Be recognized...in a bloody heartbeat...now."

He sucked in a breath. "So they truly are looking for you?"

"Oh yeah," she murmured, eyes closed as she struggled to remain conscious; the pain stabbing through her head like so many daggers. "All over the news. I'm officially...your accomplice...by the way...bloody streetcams." She gave a reedy chuckle. "Hope...you don't mind...having a sidekick."

He was silent for a long moment. "Forgive me, Dara," he said at last. "This is my doing."

"Don't be...melodramatic," she admonished. "Didn't...didn't have to go with you...the other night, did I?"

"No, but…"

"Hate...to interrupt," Dara rasped, "but…could we…maybe…postpone this…till later? I'd very much…like…to pass out…now…"

"Dara…"

Her entire body went limp then, turning to dead weight in his arms. V remained crouched down, cradling her now unconscious form and at an utter loss as to what to do. His thoughts were scattered, questions and recriminations spreading like wildfire through his brain.

It was the distinct, coppery scent of blood that stilled the tumult, filling his nose with its pungent aroma and goading him into action. Shifting her weight, he lifted her gently into his arms and dismissed all thoughts from his mind save for the urgent need to get her safely inside the Gallery's sheltering walls.

*

Sleep did not come easily to him that night, and he eventually gave up on the possibility of it coming altogether. His mind was too full, his thoughts too muddled.

Dara had sent the delicate balance of his life spinning maddeningly out of control. It was a feeling that he intensely disliked, preferring the regimented order in which he had so painstakingly arranged his days and nights. Most irritating of all was his inability to blame anyone but himself for the current state of things—he was entirely at fault, both for his own present distress and for the predicament that she now found herself in. A fact that had been brought pointedly home when he was finally able to watch the recording he'd made of the BTN's evening newscast.

The most damning of the footage had clearly been taken as they emerged from the front doors of the office building whose roof had served as their own private stage that night. He paused the image, eyes tracing every line of her regrettably undistorted face—the arching black brows above vaguely almond shaped eyes, the delicate nose and the thin yet sweetly curved mouth.

Self-condemnation rose like bile in his throat. He switched the set off, angrily tossing the remote away before rising, his feet unconsciously directing him toward the darkened room where she lay, lost in fitful slumber.

It was a routine which repeated itself several times over the course of the night. Again and again he found himself drawn back to her bedside throughout the long, sleepless hours of the night, checking and rechecking that she was all right.

The wound in her shoulder had reopened yet again—little wonder, given his disgracefully rough handling. It was yet another prick to a conscience he had long thought he did not possess. He had, however, been able to allay some of that particular guilt by cleaning and redressing the wound, noting grimly that the blood stained dressing he removed was not the one he had applied. He took small comfort from the fact that whoever had tended it after him had known what they were doing—indeed, the dressing he removed was as skillfully rendered as that which his own proficient hands could afford.

It was mildly heartening now, all these hours later, to see that the gauze was still white and unstained—she had lost too much blood in too short a time for her body to have had a chance to replenish itself. Also heartening, in a much more personal way, was the fact that the skin of her neck shown pale and unblemished in the light filtering in from the hallway behind him. The mere idea that he _could_ have left bruises on that white column of flesh was troubling enough; to have actually seen the marks of his fingers branded into her skin would have been unbearable.

And he needed no further sources of guilt in regards to the girl—he was already quite full up.

Only three days into their acquaintance, and already too many sins against her lay at his door. He had robbed her of her weapon, her good health, and the life she had led in the world above through nothing more than utter carelessness.

It had been careless to invite her along in those earliest hours of the Fifth without once ever considering the consequences for _her_ should they be spotted together. It had been careless to follow her into that cemetery and even more so to distract her from her fight. It had been careless to attack with such abandon in the tunnels—his senses far surpassed that of an ordinary man, but what good did they do if they could not separate friend from foe?

She had displayed such amazing trust in him on the first night of their acquaintance, such unquestioning faith in a man that she knew virtually nothing about. He had found it both enthralling and fascinating to see the confident certainty that he would keep her safe staring out at him from within those luminous blue eyes.

It was a look that he was quite sure he would never receive from her again, the sentiment necessarily lost to him in the face of his negligence—a loss that pained him far more than it should have. And in ways that he still could not fully understand or reconcile.

_Well, old son,_ his mind whispered insidiously, _you shall have ample time to deduce the answers now. She'll not be going anywhere for a long, long time._

That particular thought had been pushing itself to the forefront of his mind more and more over the past hours, resisting banishment harder with every successive appearance. He was all too aware that she was going to be his guest for some time to come—the bag she had been carrying and which he had gone back to fetch from the tunnels made that much obvious, overstuffed as it was.

He wondered how it was possible that a single prospect could simultaneously kindle such fear and such delight. The idea of spending the coming months in her company was terrifying in a way that he could not even begin to contemplate, yet at the same time, filled him with an eagerness that he had never felt before.

It was confusing and it was worrisome.

And it all had the possibility of turning out very, very badly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Nine**

The soft, jazzy strains of _The Girl from Ipanema_ greeted Dara when she opened her eyes. Blinking blearily for a few moments, she took a quick stock of the various aches and pains dogging her. Her head was even worse off than it had been the day before; an incessant pounding emanated from the crown of her skull and radiated all the way forward to her eyes and backwards down into her neck. Her wounded shoulder throbbed, though no worse than it had the day before—surprising, because she vaguely remembered that the wound had reopened yet again after her encounter with V in the tunnels. A quick peek at the bandages confirmed that they had been changed again, and she sourly wondered if she had any blood left to lose.

Adjusting slightly, she grimaced. Her back was also out of sorts, aching dully from her shoulder blades to her tailbone—attributable to her collision with the wall, no doubt.

Altogether, she felt miserable. She was just on the verge of deciding that there was nothing that could possibly tempt her from beneath the warm cocoon of sheets and blanket, when an absolutely heavenly aroma tickled her senses and set her stomach growling ferociously.

Pushing herself upright with a groan, she was met with the sight of her bag sitting upon the chair across the room. She smiled thinly, making a mental note to thank V for retrieving it from the tunnels. At the same time, the reminder that she was going to be staying indefinitely set her mind to other, more domestic matters. Glancing around the room—the same one she'd woken in before—the woman in her began to measure the space for its possibilities.

If this was to be her room, there was going to have to be a little more space and a lot fewer books.

However, common courtesy and good manners—of which she had ample amounts of both, though she often pretended otherwise—reminded her that it would be terribly presumptuous to start rearranging V's home so soon. In a week or so, depending on how things were going, she would broach the subject.

Satisfied with that thought, she swung her legs around and pushed the covers aside, sliding out of bed with another low groan of protest. Following her nose as well as her ears this time, she shuffled down the hall and through the main chamber of the Gallery.

Rounding a corner, she stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening incredulously.

She'd found the kitchen—and V along with it.

He was standing at a small, gas stove and wearing an apron tied over his customary costume.

A pink apron.

A _flowery_, pink apron.

For a moment, she wondered whether she'd hit her head even harder than she thought.

She watched him in silence for a few moments. He made quite the picture as he stood there—spatula in hand, dishtowel thrown casually over one shoulder, head bobbing as he hummed along to the jukebox—and she couldn't help but smile. It was charming, every last tiny detail of it. She found herself holding her breath for fear of disturbing the scene.

Her stomach, though, seemed to have other ideas, giving her away with a very loud and embarrassing growl. V turned immediately, Fawkes' face greeting her with his ever present grin.

"Ah," he breathed, offering a quick bow. "Good morning, Dara. You are up much sooner than I anticipated." He motioned toward the stove. "I had planned to bring your breakfast to you. But as you appear to be up to it…" he motioned toward the table meaningfully.

"Thanks," Dara replied, still smiling; the figure he had cut in profile was nothing compared to seeing him straight on. "And I've gotta say, V...that's a very interesting apron."

"Come now, Dara," V scolded mildly, waving the spatula at her, "there is no need for euphemism." He plucked at the apron. "This is a dreadfully ugly apron, if it is anything."

It was a joke, but she didn't laugh. Her attention had strayed from the apron to the fingers that were tugging at it, and everything else faded into the background. Schooling her expression carefully, she traced her eyes over his hands, a wave of sympathy drowning out all else. The reddened, thickly scarred flesh was a surprise—she'd never considered that he might have a reason, beyond a predilection for the dramatic, for dressing as he did—and it was unavoidably eye-catching.

"Your hands…"

At her soft words, V froze. Then, the mask dipped ever so slightly, as if verifying with his own eyes what she had seen. "Yes," he murmured distantly, turning his hands over to look at his palms. Then, seeming to come back to himself, he cleared his throat. "Ah…yes," he spun around, depositing the spatula onto the counter as he hastily tugged on the black leather gloves that had been lying on the table behind him. Turning back around, he held the now covered appendages up, wiggling his fingers at her. "There, that's better, isn't it?" Lifting the spatula again, he turned back to the stove, jabbing at the contents of the pan. "I hope I didn't put you off your appetite."

His tone was light, but Dara could sense the dismay that it so carefully veiled. Horrified by her rudeness, she took a step toward him. "Not at all," she rushed to assure him, feeling every inch the insensitive bitch, "really." She paused, framing her words with the utmost care. "'But…it's just…" she paused again, blew out a breath of frustration. "Are you all right?"

He glanced at her and away again quickly, lifting the pan from the burner and flipping its contents with practiced ease. "Oh…fine, fine, I assure you."

She took another step closer, her eyes locked on his profile. What was going on behind that mask? "Can I ask what happened?"

Again, he froze. "There was a fire," he said at last, his voice low and strained, "a long time ago." Coming back to himself again, he picked up the pan and tilted it, sliding its contents onto a plate. "Ancient history for some," he turned to face her, the plate held high in one hand, "but not really good table conversation. Now, my dear, would you care for a cup of tea with your breakfast?"

Recognizing the finality in his tone, Dara felt a wave of relief wash over her. Quite honestly, she didn't want to talk about it anymore than he did, but had felt compelled to at least _ask_ the questions. It was still too early into their acquaintance—the bonds of friendship still far too tenuous—to engage in such a private and deeply personal conversation. "Please," she moved toward the table, tossing him a small smile, "I'm starving."

V set the plate down as she eased herself into one of the chairs of the small dinette set, pouring her out a cup of tea as she lifted her fork. She glanced up at him sharply after the first bite was in her mouth. "V?" she asked around the mouthful of food that she was slowly and methodically chewing.

"Yes, my dear?" He watched with growing amusement as she prodded the food on her plate with her fork, still chewing the first bite.

"What am I eating?"

"An omelet," he replied.

"I can see that," she snapped, having finally swallowed the first bite. "What's _in _the omelet?"

"You've lost a good deal of blood over the past few days. You need iron—and there are few foods as iron-rich as liver."

Her fork clattered to the plate. "Liver?"

He nearly laughed aloud at the expression of disgust on her face. "Liver," he affirmed. "I take it you are not fond of it?"

"Fond of…" she began, eyeing the plate before her distastefully. "No," she said after a moment. "No, I'm not. In fact, I generally try to avoid eating internal organs of any kind—which is a surprisingly hard rule to live by in this country. Tell me," she tilted her face to his, as she pushed the plate away from her, "coz I've always wondered—where'd this national fascination with viscera come from? First I've got Will constantly trying to feed me kidney this and tongue that, and now you're trying to sneak me liver. I don't understand it—and I'm just as British as either of you."

"Will?" The name slipped from behind the mask much sharper than V had intended, and he wondered exactly what name he should put to the sudden heat that flared through him. "Who is Will?"

Dara, still caught up in her disgust, glanced up at him with the grimace still firmly plastered to her face. "Closest thing to a Dad I've got," she explained. "He and his wife practically raised me."

And just that quickly, the heat died away, leaving him feeling strangely satisfied. "Ah, I see." One gloved hand reached out and scooted the plate back toward her. "As sorry as I am to inflict such punishment upon your gastronomic sensibilities," he said, "I am going to have to insist that you finish every bite. As I said, you have lost a great deal of blood, and if the circles under your eyes and the pallor of your skin are any indication, I fear you are a trifle anemic at present."

"But…"

"No buts," V interrupted, his tone uncompromising. "I promise that I shall strike liver from the menu entirely after this. But right now, you _will_ eat every bite of this omelet, even if I have to feed it to you myself."

Annoyed blue eyes met his. To his surprise though, she did not argue. "Got any hot sauce?"

Brow lifting beneath the mask, V crossed the room and pulled open his small refrigerator. "As a matter of fact," he said, pulling a bottle out and depositing it on the table in front of her. "Fond of a little extra spice, are you?"

"Hate it actually," Dara ground out as she picked up the bottle, dumping an obscene amount onto her plate. "But if I'm gonna have to choke this down, I wanna taste as little of it as possible."

"Now that's being just a bit overdramatic, don't you think?"

The look she threw his way could have melted ice. "And _that_'_s_ the pot calling the kettle black," she snapped, "don't you think?"

V's lips twitched and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Touché."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of Dara's fork clicking against the china. V leaned back against the stove with his arms folded across his chest and watched her force down the food, amused by the way her nose scrunched up in disgust with every bite. Once the omelet was gone—and with more speed than he thought wise, though he hesitated to say so—Dara glanced up at him, clearly uncomfortable.

"V?"

"Yes, my dear?"

She blew out a breath, the clearly uncomfortable. "Might've overdone it on the hot sauce," she conceded. "Could I have a glass of water or a piece of toast, please?"

He was moving before the words had even fully left her mouth, retrieving both a carton of milk from the refrigerator and bread from the pantry. Pouring out a glass of the milk, he set it down in front of her, smiling widely beneath the mask. "This will help alleviate the burning until the toast is ready—and far better than water would," he said, then turned and popped a piece of bread into the small toaster oven beside the stove. "Would you like butter or would you prefer it dry?"

She drank down half the glass before lowering it from her lips with a snort of revulsion. "It's a sin to call what we're rationed butter—nasty, bland stuff that it is."

"Oh, I don't know," V hummed, pulling the lightly toasted bread out and spreading on a healthy amount of the condiment in question. "I personally find it quite delicious." He dropped the slice of toast onto her plate.

Dara eyed it as she took another gulp of the milk—it had helped, but her mouth was still tingling uncomfortably. "Then you must get a different kind than I do," she said as she lifted the bread, taking a small, tentative bite. Her eyes widened, then flew up to V's as the flavor registered on her tongue. "Real butter," she murmured around the bite, savoring the taste. "This is actually real butter. It's been yeas since…," she paused, her look turning questioning. "Where'd you get real butter?"

V shrugged, reaching behind his back to untie his apron. "A supply train," he replied with too casual nonchalance, "on its way to Chancellor Sutler's."

Dara nearly choked. "You stole this from Sutler?"

"Yes."

Dara stared at him for a long moment, and then shook her head. "You're raving, you know that, right?"

V made a dismissive gesture with one gloved hand. "I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none."

It was Shakespeare—Macbeth, if memory served. And while she was no scholar, she was decently versed in Shakespeare. "As a man is, so he sees," she replied carefully. "As the eye is formed, such are its powers."

V snapped the dishtowel from his shoulder. "You are fond of Blake, aren't you?"

"You're not?"

He turned away, tossing the towel onto the counter and collecting the pan and spatula. "Not particularly," he replied as he walked the soiled dishes across the room to the sink. "Too pious for my taste."

"Yeah," Dara agreed. "Mine too."

V set the dishes down and turned toward her, head cocked to the side. "He is not a favorite of yours?"

"I don't hate him, but I don't love him either." Seeing the unvoiced question in the tilt of his head, she shrugged. "I was only at uni for about five minutes, but I managed to get through a lit class while I was there. My term paper for the class was on Blake, and I guess the information sort of stuck." She took another bite of her toast. "Sorry that it bugs you, but I'm not exactly a literary genius. Gotta work with what I know."

V shook his head. "In that case, I see that I must extend to you the use of my library," he replied. "For, as you have so kindly pointed out, the state of my sanity is dubious. A bit more Blake and I fear it shall be lost entirely."

Dara smiled around her toast. "And here I was just waiting for the right opportunity to comment on your 'fearful symmetry'," she swallowed a bite. "Y'know," she continued, nodding his direction, "that poem could've been written for you." She grinned. "Very appropriate, I think."

She was teasing him. It was plain by the coy tilt of her head and the twist of her lips, and V felt his heart trip in his chest. The effect this girl had on him...nothing in the twenty years he could remember of his life had prepared him for her. "I am not entirely certain that I am not offended by that assessment."

A small frown pinched her features. "Offended? Why?"

"Blake fears the tiger. And while he admires it, he is certainly not fond of the creature."

Her frown deepened, black brows knitting together over the bridge of her nose as her eyes studied his masked face. When the frown lifted, it left a soft smile in its place. "Well, I'm not Blake," she said slowly, meaningfully. "And since I think he and I might just have had a terrible falling out, I'll definitely be making use of your library, V."

There was a compliment buried beneath those words—a compliment that V had no idea how to respond to. Instead of even trying, he bobbed his head at her. "And for that you shall have my eternal thanks, my dear."

She had finished her toast, and leaned back in her chair, wincing. She was generally quite good at compartmentalizing pain, but her various injuries were beginning to make themselves known. Climbing back under the covers sounded just about the nearest thing to heaven that she could imagine, but there were a few things she wanted to discuss with him first. "Your speech the other day," she said, considering him closely. "Can I ask you about it?"

Taking a moment to adjust to the change in topic, V crossed his arms in front of him, and leaned back against the stove again. "Of course."

"Did you mean it?"

"Every word."

"And you really think your plan's gonna work?"

As before, there was no doubt in her voice, only open and honest curiosity. "There is no certainty," V replied, "only opportunity."

Dara bit her lower lip. "You actually believe that people will turn up on the Fifth to stand beside you? Sutler's goons will likely be out in droves, with enough black bags for all of London if necessary."

"People should not be afraid of their governments," V intoned gravely, "governments should be afraid of their people."

"Well yeah, in a perfect world," Dara responded, the elbow of her good arm propped on the table, her chin resting against her palm as she looked up at him. "But this isn't a perfect world, is it? The reality of the situation's a lot different than what it _should_ be. I hope differently, but I just don't think the people of this country have enough spirit left to take that sort of stand."

"You underestimate us, my dear. We are a resilient race, with the pride of generations behind us—a pride that even Norsefire has been unable to erase entirely. I believe that, given the right stimulus, that pride shall prevail, and our countrymen and women will remember everything they have been forced to forget."

"Part of that pride being our national landmarks—and you've already blown up one of those, and are planning to do the same to another. You ever considered that your threats against Parliament could end up being counterproductive? After all, we don't celebrate the Gunpowder Treason itself on the Fifth...we celebrate the fact that it failed. To the every day Brit, Guy Fawkes was a traitor who got what was coming to him."

V tilted his head deferentially, impressed by the pertinence of her argument. "I cannot deny that such a possibility exists. However, I believe that the people will understand the necessity of bringing down Parliament this time." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The building is a symbol, Dara—a physical manifestation of the British government, if you will, and the act of destroying it is symbolic of a desire to destroy the government itself. Symbols are given power by people—taken by itself alone, a symbol is meaningless. Four hundred years ago, the British people did not embrace the cause of Fawkes and his co-conspirators, thus the failure of the Gunpowder Treason to effect any sort of real change. But I firmly believe that there are few people living in this country today who would not support the downfall of Norsefire. And with enough people believing in it, blowing up a building—blowing up_ this_ building—could change the world."

"Yeah, it could," Dara mused, her gaze speculative. "The question is—will it change the world for the better?"

V frowned beneath the mask. "You doubt my intentions?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I've got no doubts at all about your intentions. But your methods are a different story. I get why you're doing it, but I have to admit that I have a bit of an issue about needlessly putting innocent lives in danger."

"I have never put an innocent life in danger needlessly," V snapped, his frown deepening to a full on glare. "It is unfortunate that some good people must die, but if that is the price that must be paid to obtain freedom, then so be it. This is war, Dara."

"Yes, it is," Dara agreed. "But you're not getting my point, V. I understand that collateral damage is unavoidable—I'm not stupid. The other day though, you walked into the BTN strapped with enough dynamite to take out half the Tower. And you did it first thing in the morning when the building was completely full. Did you even consider how many innocent lives would be lost if something had gone wrong and that bomb had gone off?"

Anger flared deep inside of him; frustrated, indignant anger. He had never had any intention of detonating the bomb he wore. It had served its purpose, allowing him to get in, do what needed doing, and then get out again. Of course, some small part of him acknowledged that she was correct; that something _could _have gone wrong. But it hadn't. And anyway, what right had this girl, this mere chit of a thing, to question his methods…to judge him?

Dara could sense the change in him, could feel the sudden anger radiating from him. Her eyes skipped over the mask, abandoning it in favor of studying the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the way he arranged himself. The mask told her nothing, but the rest of him spoke to her in a way she could not even begin to explain. And right now, he was telling her quite clearly that he was absolutely furious.

She sighed, reaching up to rub at her eyes tiredly. "I didn't mean to upset you. I was ecstatic when I heard your speech, V, because I _do _see as you see and feel as you feel. I want your plan to work. I want that more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. But before I throw myself behind you entirely, I just needed to clear a few things up. I'm no saint, V—I've killed, as you well know. And I'll kill again if I need to. I've got absolutely no problems with punishing the guilty. But I can't support the idea that good people are expendable."

"But they are, Dara. In the battle against Norsefire, we are all expendable."

"To a certain extent," Dara said carefully, "maybe. But that doesn't mean that you should take advantage of that fact." She sighed again, frustrated with herself. "I'm obviously saying this all wrong. I'm not saying that I don't support what you're doing."

"Then what are you saying?" V's voice was hard and cold.

"I'm saying that I want you to be careful, V. I'm saying that I want you put as much thought into the _how's _as you do the _why's_. Because at this point, the way you've been talking, it almost seems like what you're doing is less about justice and more about revenge. And I need to know that this is more than just revenge, V."

V was silent for a long time, those two diametric opposites warring yet again within him: reason battling emotion, the eternal struggle between mind and heart. This time, and for the first time since their first encounter, reason won the day. Straightening, V lifted his head, Fawkes' grin hiding a much grimmer expression beneath. "I am not answerable to you."

Dara cocked her head to the side, regarding him in stoic silence. "Then you're no better than Norsefire," she said at last, "because they're not answerable to me either." Closing her eyes, she lifted a hand to rub at her forehead, suddenly acutely aware of the headache pounding out a staccato rhythm behind her eyes. "I've had about as much of this conversation as I can take right now. Think I'll go lay down for a bit. Thanks for breakfast."

After the door of what he already thought of as _her_ _room_ slammed shut, only then did V allow himself to drop into one of the dining chairs. Her words had hit him like a fist to the gut, stinging all the more because it was the second time she had equated him with Norsefire. Worst of all, her comparison was accurate enough to give him pause.

It was disconcerting that such easily discernable comparisons existed between him and the behemoth he sought to slay. And it was even more disconcerting to know that she would have nearly a years' worth of opportunities to skewer him with that razor-sharp perception that she wielded with such devastating accuracy.

He shuddered to think what sort of damage the girl could do in twelve months. She had been living beneath his roof for barely twelve hours and she had already driven him half mad.

Slamming a fist down against the table, V launched himself from the chair and out of the kitchen, in search of a distraction from the dark thoughts rolling through his mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Ten**

In her room, Dara lay atop the sheets with her good arm flung over her eyes, but she was not asleep.

The conversation in the kitchen ran continuously through her mind, aggravating her more and more with each repetition. She had seen a very different side of V during that conversation; a side that she didn't particularly like. Part of her wanted to strangle the man for his arrogance. Another part—the part that couldn't forget the sight of his hands—was torn between weeping for his pain and admiring his courage.

Unfortunately, strangulation was not an option at present—she was in no condition to mete out the punishment that he deserved. And while she did admire his courage, she wasn't about to cry over the man.

What she really wanted to do was go to sleep and forget about the whole insane situation for a few hours. God knew she needed it. But between the pounding in her head and the fullness of her thoughts, sleep was going to be a long time coming, if it came at all.

And so, she lay there in the dark. Thinking.

About V.

It was strange, but somehow it felt as if she had been worrying over the man for years, rather than days. He'd come barreling into her world like a hurricane; had wrapped himself within the very fabric of her life with an ease that should have frightened her. On the contrary though, she found herself enjoying every second spent in his company and eagerly awaiting the next moment she would share with him. On a certain level, even arguing with him was oddly satisfying.

She began to suspect that, given the time and the opportunity—of which the immediate future promised plenty of both—she might be in real danger of coming to care for the man more than she reasonably should. And she wasn't sure whether to be frightened of the possibility, or eager for it.

Dara was many things; romantic was not one of them. She had never had the time or the energy for a real relationship. There had been men in her life over the years, but none that she had ever considered more than mere temporary amusement. Thus, that she was so willingly admitting that the possibility for something more existed in regards to this particular man was more than a little unsettling.

And inconvenient. Oh yes, above all things inconvenient. This was no boy next door—no nice young man from two doors down who always held the lift for her when he saw her coming. This was a man made of secrets and complications. This was a man with more baggage than a luggage trolley at Heathrow. This was a man that any woman in her right mind would run away from as fast as she possibly could.

But it was undeniable and irresistible, the attraction she felt for him. It was also different from any similar feeling she had experienced previously. Unable to see his face, it was instead the personality behind the mask that drew her interest and set her nerves tingling with awareness. Of course, the figure he cut in his unrelieved black was an allurement all its own, bolstered even further by the memory of the corded steel she'd felt beneath all that dark fabric.

Even the vague knowledge of what the fabric concealed did nothing to diminish the strength of his appeal to her. Indeed, what she'd seen of his hands had done nothing more than rouse her sympathy; it had never even occurred to her to be disgusted by the sight of them.

Blowing out a long, slow breath, she squeezed her eyes shut harder.

"God help me," she muttered into the darkness. "I think I'm finally going right on round the bloody bend."

The sudden, unmistakable clash of steel upon steel sent her shooting upright. When it was followed almost immediately by another identical clang, this one punctuated by a shout from V, she was on her feet and out the door, fighter's instincts kicking in and the accompanying adrenaline surge making her forget all about the various aches and pains that dogged her.

Skidding around the corner of the hall into the main room, she stopped short.

It was another one of those moments. Her discovery of his flowered apron in the kitchen only a few hours earlier had been the first—a few seconds out of time that had allowed her a look behind the mask and the bravado. The glimpse of the man behind Fawkes' eternal grin had been tantalizing. The scene before her now was even more so.

She had not been mistaken—there was a battle being waged in the main chamber of the Gallery. But she had no fear that V's opponent would best him. The full suite of medieval armor was sturdy, but she doubted it would be any sort of match for the masked man who was currently circling it with the restrained violence of a tiger.

He had abandoned his jacket, and she was mildly surprised to see a gray shirt beneath his black vest. It was the most casual she had seen him dressed, and she thought that the look might be even more becoming than the full black that she was quickly coming to know as his uniform.

Slashing and jabbing, he moved lithely around the armor, and she could not help but note that his technique, while elaborate and likely effective against the majority of opponents he might face, nevertheless lacked proper training. She was in no hurry to correct him though. She was far too bemused by the picture he made to even think of interrupting the scene with criticism of his form and footwork.

To her utter delight, he grabbed a gauntleted arm, lifting it to his neck, struggling against his unmoving foe. A quick glance at the television revealed a similar scene being played out on the screen, and she could no longer hold back the smile that had been hovering over her lips since first stumbling into the room.

Throwing himself backward, V landed upon a Victorian chaise, a booted foot coming up to kick away his invisible adversary. He launched himself upright and swept the sword about dramatically, again perfectly imitating the actor on the screen before him.

"Ah…Mondego," he growled, thrusting at the armor, and then, with one last arcing swoop of his arm, he knocked the helm of the suit clear off, sending it tumbling across the floor. It rolled to a stop mere inches from Dara's socked feet.

"Oh…" he sucked in a sharp breath, his head dipping and the hand not holding the sword moving to straighten his vest, to brush stray strands of his wig back into place. "Forgive me," he murmured, clearly embarrassed. "I do hope that I did not wake you."

Smiling even wider and enjoying his obvious embarrassment far more than she should, Dara bent down to retrieve the helm from the floor. She winced a little as her head and shoulder gave simultaneous twinges of protest, but even that couldn't dim the wattage of her grin. "No," she assured, crossing the distance between them to come to a stop just before him. "I heard fighting," she continued, holding up the helm. "But I'm glad to see you've got the situation well in hand."

Clearing his throat and wanting nothing more than to sink into the carpet beneath his feet, V grabbed the helm from her. "Indeed…" He turned away, settling it back in its rightful place atop the neckpiece of his silent opponent. "I was merely…practicing."

Dara, not at all inclined to let him off the hook so easily—a remnant, perhaps, of their earlier disagreement—arched a brow at that. "Practicing?" She turned, eyeing the television briefly before returning her gaze to his. "Looked a lot more like _playing_ from where I was standing."

Again, V cleared his throat, fidgety beneath her clear, candid gaze. "Yes…well…" he pointed toward the television. "The Count of Monte Cristo," he said almost defensively, turning to deposit his sword into the empty sheath strapped about the steel man's waist. "My favorite film."

That last had been said with something very close to pleading, and Dara decided that she had drawn out his discomfort enough. "Really?" She turned back to the television with interest, observing the film with a critical eye. "I love the story," she said, turning back to him, "but I don't think I've seen this version."

V relaxed then, recognizing the peace-offering for what it was. "It is, I believe, the finest adaptation of them all," he said, then paused. "Though, I have not been able to acquire a copy of the last version that was produced by Hollywood. I understand that it was quite well done."

"It was," Dara confirmed. "Wish I'd known—I've got the disc."

V shot her a look. "It is on the blacklist."

A one-shouldered shrug preceded the grin she gave him. "So're most of the films in my collection."

He chuckled. "For shame, my dear." A pause, and then, tentatively—"I could restart the film, if you'd like. Robert Donat makes an excellent Dantes."

"I could be persuaded," Dara replied, still watching the television. "But I've gotta know something first—does it follow the novel, or do Edmund and Mercedes get their happy ending?"

"It is the ending that Dumas denied us, presented as only celluloid can deliver."

"Well in that case," Dara slipped past him and settled herself down into a corner of the sofa, tipping her head back against the cushions to look him. "You gonna stand there all night, or you gonna restart the film?"

Her playfulness was infectious, as was the smile she wore. V's own lips bent in response behind the mask. "Your wish, my dear, is my command."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Watching a movie with V turned out to be a much more familiar experience than Dara had expected.

At home, she was always watching movies. They were, in many ways, a passion greater than even battling Norsefire for her—and they were a passion that she shared with Will. Countless nights had found them in virtually identical situations to the one Dara was in now—settled on opposite corners of a couch, the flickering light of a television screen before them…and Will's penchant for reciting lines with the actors and inserting his own personal commentary throughout keeping up a running dialogue for the duration.

The only difference between those memories and the present situation was that it was V's deep, cultured voice echoing the actors rather than Will's East End cant; and she found the habit as endearing in V as she always had in Will.

In fact, during most of the first half of the movie, her attention—though her eyes never strayed from the telly—was far more engaged in listening for his next recitation rather than focusing on the story being played out on the screen. The fact that he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was even doing it made it even more charming.

But then, something changed.

Half way through the movie, V said something that altered the atmosphere of the room. It was a very subtle shift, but it was enough to dampen her mood.

Liz was an avid fan of 19th century French Lit, and at her insistence, Dara had read the great works of not only Dumas, but also Hugo, Flaubert, de Maupassant and Zola. To be frank, she'd not been overly fond of any of them, having a marked preference of her own for 20th century fantasy. But of everything Liz had bullied her into reading, she had been most taken with The Count of Monte Cristo. She had ended up reading the book several times, enjoying the bulk of the story but hating the ending a little more every time she read it.

As such, she instantly recognized the words that V growled out once the on-screen Dantes began to exact his revenge: "And now, farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude…I have substituted myself for Providence in rewarding the good; may the God of vengeance now yield me His place to punish the wicked".

Until that moment, she'd never digested the true power of those words. But now—hearing them in V's cold, hard voice—the words suddenly seemed to come to life before her eyes.

She dipped her chin a bit, observing him in short, furtive glances. His posture had not changed. He was still reclined against the cushions with his booted feet flat on the floor in front of him and one arm draped along the armrest beside him. But she could feel the tension now radiating from him, could read it in the single fist he held clenched tightly against one black clad thigh.

Her eyes settled upon that fist, studying the curl of his fingers and tracing over every wrinkle in the supple leather of his glove. She was so focused on his hand that she even fancied she could hear the soft creaks and whispers the fabric made as the muscles beneath it flexed. When his fist abruptly relaxed, it jolted her out of her reverie and she jerked her eyes up to find V watching her watch him.

Feeling color flare into her cheeks at having been caught out, she flinched backwards against the cushions. "Sorry," she murmured, shifting her eyes back to the screen before he could say anything.

She tried very hard to ignore the weight of his gaze as it remained focused upon her. But after a very, very long moment, she felt his attention turn back to the screen as well, and she heaved a mental sigh of relief.

The movie had new meaning for her now, and she turned her attention to it with renewed interest. V's voice had betrayed more than a simple affection for the film—this story had a much deeper significance to him; significance that she was astonished she had not recognized from the moment he said it was his favorite movie.

The Count of Monte Cristo was, at its heart, a story of vengeance. Righteous, meticulously planned vengeance meted out by a man whose entire life had been stolen away from him; vengeance so all-consuming that it _became_ the man himself, erasing nearly every trace of who he had once been.

Oh yes, she could understand now why this particular film was V's favorite. She knew none of the particulars of what had happened to him, but she suspected that his hands were not the only part of his body marked by the scarring she'd seen at breakfast. She was also fairly certain that Norsefire was to blame.

Watching The Count of Monte Cristo was not the escape into fiction for V that movies were intended to be. She suspected that, for him, it was barely even fiction at all—that, to him, the story was a mirror that reflected back to him all that he was, and all that he hoped to accomplish.

Those thoughts—_certainties_—haunted her throughout the remainder of the film, lending the story an edge of sadness that she had never felt before. She was usually thrilled by Dantes' resolute dedication to his revenge, forswearing even the love and comfort of the woman who adored him in order to complete the task that his cruel imprisonment and years of torture had set upon him. Of course, in her imagination, he always returned to Mercedes once the final deed was done and he could again be simply Edmund Dantes.

She had always been a sucker for happy endings—which was why she'd always preferred the movies to the book. But as the movie came to its close with all the melodramatic romanticism she'd always adored, she began to understand why Dumas had written the ending that he did.

The words of love between the couple suddenly rang hollow to her. Their reunion no longer made the sort of inevitable sense that it always had. As she watched the star-crossed lovers cling to one another on the screen, she could not help but recall the unyielding coldness of V's words earlier. He had so perfectly encompassed what she imagined Dumas had intended when he wrote the Count that Dara finally knew, without question, that there could never have been a happy ending for Edmund and Mercedes.

"You find your own tree…"

She smiled softly at the last line of the film, more due to V's recital of it than because she had enjoyed the ending. As the credits began to roll, she could not keep her smile from falling to a frown, her heart heavy with the truth that had just been laid out for her.

After a moment, she felt V's weight shift, and glanced over to see that he had turned to face her.

"Did you like it?"

She nodded, her throat tight. "Yeah...it was very well done."

V cocked his head, eyes narrowed in consideration behind the mask. "What has upset you?"

Glancing his way again, she offered a tentative smile. "Oh, nothing really," she dismissed, "just…had a sort of epiphany, I guess."

"Really?" V shifted again, his leg coming up to lay across the cushion of the couch as he turned completely toward her, one long arm dropping along the back of the sofa. "Dare I ask what it was in regards to? Clearly it is not something that pleases you."

"No," she agreed, "it doesn't." A sigh. "I just finally figured out why Dumas didn't give Edmund and Mercedes a happy ending," she said quietly, "and it makes me feel very sorry for Mercedes."

"Why?"

"Because vengeance was all that really mattered to him, wasn't it? The Count wasn't interested in love or forgiveness. All he cared about was having his revenge. I mean, he wasn't really even Edmund Dantes anymore, was he? He'd sacrificed everything of himself to become the Count. The man Mercedes had loved was truly dead."

"Hmm," V considered for a moment, and then shrugged lightly. "Dantes did what was necessary in order to achieve what he most desired. I hardly see how that is cause or justification for pity."

"That doesn't surprise me," Dara retorted sharply. "But I wasn't talking about Dantes, was I? It's Mercedes I pity, not him."

V frowned beneath the mask. He had no idea why, but she appeared to be angry with him. Treading lightly, he tilted his head. "Forgive me, Dara, but I do not understand you. What has Mercedes to do with the ultimate point of the story? She is merely a plot device, a distraction which exists only to test Monte Cristo's true devotion to his cause."

The look of incredulous dismay that she leveled at him made his insides twist.

"Is that really what you think Mercedes is?"

Intensely uncomfortable beneath that look, V resisted the urge to turn away. He forced his eyes to remain on hers even though she would never have known the difference. "It is. Her purpose in the story has always been perfectly plain to me."

Her expression fell then, an even deeper sadness etched into her countenance. She shook her head again. "We watched the same film, we read the same book—but we took completely different lessons away from it. You admire Dantes for his dedication to his revenge, but all I see in him is a slavish devotion to a personal vendetta that'll never be truly over. You see him as a man forsaking everything for the sake of a cause, but I see a tormented man trying desperately to bury his emotional demons beneath denial so thick that even _he_ doesn't know it's there." She paused, blowing out a breath of frustration. "And you call Mercedes a plot device," she snapped, "while I see a woman who's suffered just as much as the so-called hero; a woman who loved him and mourned him for sixteen years. A woman who would've given up everything she had just to save him from himself."

Her words were almost hypnotizing, delivered with a quiet certainty that refused to be ignored. V felt her calm conviction, absorbed it into his very self with an eagerness that he did not understand but could neither deny nor dismiss. He had little faith in the gentler emotions—love, to him, lived only within the confines of prose and poetry, a state existing solely within the province of the written word. But to hear her speak of it, to feel the potency of her belief in its power—it awakened something in him that he had never before believed existed.

_To feel such passion…to know such devotion…could a man hope to come any nearer to heaven than that?_

More than a little stunned by the turn of his thoughts, and feeling oddly shaken, V released a breath he had not even realized he had been holding. He had been fully prepared to correct what he had considered a grave misapprehension on her part. But now, he wondered if maybe…just maybe…it was his own interpretation that was lacking.

In the end, he decided that, perhaps, it was a little of both.

"It is said that fiction illuminates the greater truths of life," he said carefully. "Such truths must inevitably differ, as the eyes and minds perceiving them differ. Thus, the meanings we take from such truths depend greatly upon perception. I fear that there can be no absolutes in this instance."

It was as close to an acceptance of her interpretation as she was likely to get. She could tell that easily. And really, after a moment's consideration, she realized that she might be able to count it as a much greater victory than it appeared to be. He had not dismissed her words outright—and he had, at the very least, given sincere thought to what she had said before answering.

"That's very interesting," she studied his masked face, wishing yet again that she could see his eyes, "coming from a man whose entire world seems to be painted in black and white."

A valid observation; V dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "Freedom and justice must necessarily be absolute; I make no allowance for relativism or pluralism in their case. On…other subjects," he paused, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, "I am prepared to take a more yielding position."

It was promising. It was heartening. And it was just enough of an admission to renew Dara's hope that the man behind the revolutionary was well worth knowing. Deciding to let the subject drop—at least for the present—she gave him a slow smile. "In that case, I wave the white flag. We'll just call this one a draw, yeah?" She laughed. "I wonder if we'll ever be able to have a conversation that doesn't turn into an argument."

"It does seem that we are doomed to disagreement," V agreed, relieved at her deliberately light tone. "But then, such is the nature of the beast I fear—we each of us are quite decided in our opinions."

Dara snorted. "That's a nice way of saying we're both stubborn as hell."

V shrugged. "Merely an exercise in diplomacy," he contended. "I should never like to label a lady anything so unkind."

"Very gallant." A black brow arched. "But I wonder if you'll feel the same way a few months from now." She smirked at him. "I'm not gonna get any easier to live with, V. If anything, I'll only get worse. You'll probably be ready to strangle me within two weeks, and if you haven't killed me by Christmas, I'll be bloody well shocked."

She was delightful in her wickedness. The devilish glint in her eyes and the impish smile that curved her lips were enchanting. He only wished that her words had not recalled the near disaster of the previous evening so clearly to his mind. The tactile memory of his fingers wrapped around her throat made him tense, and he looked away from her. "You need have no fear on that score," he said, voice strained. "Argue with me every second of every day if you so choose—you shall encounter no physical retaliation for anything you may say. Never again will my hand be lifted against you, Dara."

It took her a moment to realize what had happened. But when she connected his withdrawal and his words to what had happened the night before, it took all her self-control not to leap across the couch and give him a good, hard smack. "Stop it," she ordered. "What happened last night was my fault—not yours."

"Forgive me for disagreeing," he snapped back, "but it was _my_ hand around your neck, Dara. I believe that warrants some shouldering of blame."

Dara sighed. "It was pitch black in that tunnel—you reacted like anyone would've under the circumstances. And you'd do well to remember that you let go as soon as you knew it was me."

"That hardly excuses what happened."

"Actually, it does," she corrected. "You were defending your territory…and besides, there was no harm done, was there? Other than a bit of a backache, I'm no worse off than I was before. And I absolutely refuse to let you turn this into something bigger than it is. It's all been forgiven and forgotten, yeah? So let's make that the end of it."

He wondered how it was possible to be frustrated and charmed at the same time. "Do you never act as you should? Any other woman would have been cursing me as a brute for such a manhandling."

That perfectly groomed black brow arched yet again, in a way that he was beginning to grow absurdly fond of.

"Is that the problem, then? You need me to get all weepy and indignant before you'll accept that I forgive you? Fine then...I can do that. I was quite good at drama once upon a time, though it's been an age since I gave it a go."

She tilted her chin up, eyes sliding closed as she craned her neck from side to side, cracking it and clearing her throat dramatically. Dropping her chin again a moment later, her eyes flew open. "Damn you!" She sobbed the word, throwing a hand over her eyes, the very picture of a fluttery, affected female. Even her accent had smoothed, her words enunciated with the same precision and eloquence as V's own. "Damn you for a brute! How dare you profane the sanctity of my flesh and the delicacy of my womanly constitution with your beastly brutality! Oh the horror! The horror!"

She was grinning when she lowered her hand from her eyes, and looking very well pleased with herself. "And since I don't really fancy doing that again, you'd better just go on and accept the fact that you're forgiven, V. I won't be held responsible for what I'll do if you don't—but I promise you, there'll be much fainting and hand-wringing involved."

V stared at her for a long moment, amazed. "Where is the man who has the power and skill to stem the torrent of a woman's will? For if she will, she will, you may depend on't; and if she won't, she won't; so there's an end on't."

"Oooh, I like that one. The world'd be a better place if you men all realized that straight off." It had been meant as a joke, but he didn't laugh. Sighing and shaking her head, Dara leaned toward him, reaching out to place her hand lightly overtop his gloved one and studiously ignoring the way he froze at her touch. "Oh come on, V…let it go. I'm sure there'll be more than enough blame going round over the next few months—and if it'll make you feel any better, I promise to make you feel horribly guilty the next time you annoy me."

His head dipped, eyes drawn to the sight of her hand resting atop the black of his glove. It was such a small thing—that light pressure of her fingers upon his. Indeed, he'd had far more intimate contact with her over the past few days. But there was something infinitely personal about the gesture that left him feeling unaccountably shaken.

Even knowing what she did about his hands, she had not hesitated to initiate the contact. She'd slid her hand over his with a casual ease that spoke of familiarity and nascent affection. And out of all of the wonderful things he had already discovered in this girl, he thought that this unheralded gesture of camaraderie might well be the most wonderful thing about her yet.

"V? Please?"

He tipped his eyes back up to hers, thankful for the anonymity that the mask provided—he feared to contemplate what emotion might be burning in his gaze at that moment. "What 'twas weak to do, 'tis weaker to lament, once being done."

Dara squeezed his hand. "Should I take that as a yes, then? Are you finally gonna be sensible and let this go?"

"If you wish it," V said quietly, "I shall reproach myself no further on this matter."

"Good," Dara said with a smile, giving his hand one last squeeze before lifting her fingers away. "That's settled then. And now that we can move on, I've got a question for you."

V tried very hard to pretend that he did not feel bereft at the loss of her touch. "By all means, my dear…ask away."

She practically bounced on the cushions. "Have you got any more old movies?"

"A great many more," he affirmed, his spirits lifting at the excitement that lit her eyes. "You are fond of films?"

"Not of the crap that Norsefire puts out today, I'm not. But I absolutely love the old black-listed movies. I've managed to scrape together a fairly respectable collection of my own over the years, but I can only imagine what yours must be like!"

Rising from the sofa, V smiled down at her. "I do pride myself on the breadth of my collection." He hesitated for a moment, a lifetime of wariness staying the nearly overwhelming urge to reach out to her. Finally—slowly—he extended his hand. "I will show you if you like."

Her hand was in his nearly as soon as the offer had passed his lips. "Oh, I'd like. I'd like very much," she lilted, all enthusiasm.

He helped her to stand, and then nearly stumbled over his own feet as her fingers slid up and around his arm to rest lightly in the crook of his elbow. His heart beating nearly double in his chest, V forced himself to relax, to emulate the ease with which she offered her touch in his acceptance of it. "The next film," he said, his voice admirably controlled despite the pounding of his pulse, "shall be yours for the picking."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twelve**

Time flowed differently in the Gallery—days seemed to last forever, but weeks flew by so quickly that Dara hardly noticed their passing. When V had declared, upon careful inspection, that the wound in her shoulder was completely healed, her first reaction had been _already?_

The mask had shifted, tilting to the angle that she recognized as amusement—she was fast learning that, in the language of the mask, it was all about angles. _"No sooner than I should have expected,"_ he had replied. _"It is a month Friday since you received it—had it __not __mended entirely by now, I would have been concerned."_

An entire month had slipped past, and she still felt as if she'd only been in this underground kingdom for a few days.

It was understandable, she supposed. Every moment was full. There was always a book to be read, a movie to be watched or a debate to be had. And there was music—always music to fill the small voids that fell between. She often wondered if V was afraid of silence, so quickly would the jukebox whir to life when the television went off or the conversation waned.

She never commented on it, but she couldn't help but notice. Small glimpses into his past had begun to store up in her memory—a passing comment here, a stilted silence there. Whatever had happened to him, it had been horrific; of that there was absolutely no doubt.

The week before Valentine's Day, three and a half months or so into her sojourn in the Gallery, she got another clue. A much bigger and far more telling clue…

She woke to the delicate strains of Bach. Smiling and stretching, she padded out to the kitchen in her pajamas—a pair of flannel sleep pants and an old Iron Maiden T-shirt she had pilfered from Will's collection some years back—sock-clad feet shuffling across the stone floor as she took her habitual seat at the small kitchenette.

"Mornin'," she offered around a yawn.

"Ah," V turned, coffee cup in hand. "Good morning, my dear." He set the mug down in front of her, followed swiftly by powdered creamer, sugar and spoon. "Sleep well?"

Pouring the inordinate amount of creamer she required into the cup, Dara nodded, yawning again. "Like a rock, thanks." She dropped two cubes of sugar into the mug, swirling the spoon until she was satisfied that it was mixed to perfection. Lifting it to her lips, she sucked in a mouthful. "Mmm…nothin' like a mornin' cuppa."

V shook his head, already back to cooking. "I still fail to see why you insist on drinking coffee rather than tea."

Dara arched a brow at his back over the rim of her mug. She had never insisted upon anything of the sort. In fact, she had been perfectly content with tea. The coffee had been a surprise when it first appeared nearly a month prior, though at first she hadn't understood why it had appeared at all. "And I still fail to see why you pester me about it every morning."

"With the way you ladle cream and sugar into it, it cannot even taste like coffee."

"Maybe not," Dara admitted, taking another sip, "but it tastes like home." She paused. "Thanks again for it, V."

He didn't respond, but she knew he'd heard her. Knowing that he would likely be silent for a while now, she set her mug down and picked up the other new addition to the breakfast table—the morning paper, folded neatly beside her napkin.

The appearance of both had stemmed from the merest snippet of conversation. They had been chatting aimlessly, skipping from topic to topic as they were wont to do in the mornings while he made her breakfast. Somehow, they had drifted onto the subject of her life above. She'd told him bits of randomness about herself and her friends—Will's obsession with daytime telly, Liz's resolute dislike of peas, Rose's green-thumb, her own rather embarrassing penchant for romance novels—and then as she glanced about the small kitchen, she had mentioned her morning ritual to him. Every morning, without fail, she had a cup coffee and read the morning paper on her tiny, but very cozy, balcony.

Even to her own ears, she had sounded wistful and V had quickly changed the subject.

The next day, she'd walked into the kitchen and been greeted by a steaming cup of coffee in place of the usual tea, and the current edition of the London Unitarian—the only newspaper left in London; government sanctioned and censored of course—propped up against the mug.

"_I regret that I have no balcony upon which you might sit and enjoy them," _he had said, indicating the coffee and paper with an elegant unfurling of wrist and fingers, "_but I thought they might make you feel a bit less homesick and a bit more at home." _

She'd fallen in love with him a little bit after that, despite her resolute determination to do nothing of the sort.

Mentally shaking herself back to the present, she began to scan the front page. One story in particular caught her attention and she ran her eyes over it, expression darkening with every line she read. When she had finished, she tossed the paper away with a disgusted sigh. "These people are unbelievable," she snapped, taking another sip of her coffee.

V half turned, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "Surely you cannot be surprised if the news is unpleasant? I cannot recall it having been anything else these past twenty years."

Dara shook her head. "This is worse than normal," she tapped a finger on the paper. "It's an editorial, written by someone named only as a high ranking Health official. Whoever he is, he blathers on a bit about St. Mary's of course…no better way to get people's attention, is there?"

"Indeed."

She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice the sudden tension in him.

"And then," she continued, "he starts ranting on about how, if only we'd been able to do more testing, then maybe the outbreak could've been avoided altogether." She waited for some sort of response from V, but when none appeared forthcoming, she simply kept talking. "He only gets to his real point at the very end—looks like our obliging and ever so benevolent government is planning to begin testing biological agents on human subjects." Again she shook her head, expression grim. "They're saying it's a precautionary measure. I know I certainly don't like the sound of it. What do you think, V?"

She glanced up at him and immediately wished that she hadn't opened her mouth at all.

He stood across the room, completely frozen. He'd gone so utterly still that she thought he might have even forgotten to breathe. A heavy silence fell over the room and wrapped itself around Dara like a thick, woolen blanket. She sat motionless, as paralyzed by his reaction as he had been by her words. Her eyes never strayed from his back, trying and failing to read his body language.

When the sharp scent of charred egg filled her nostrils, she swallowed against the lump that had settled itself in her throat. "V?" She pitched her voice low and soothing. "V…the egg's burning."

Still no reaction.

"V?" Louder this time, a bit harsher. "Can you hear me?"

Only silence—silence, and now, smoke.

She leapt to her feet, shouldering him out of the way as she ripped the pan off the burner. A quick dash to the sink followed as she flipped on the water and shoved the smoldering remnants of her breakfast beneath the spray. After a moment, she turned back around, and the sight that greeted her eyes would haunt her for days to come.

V stood in profile, head bent, breath coming hard, hands clenched so tightly into fists that she feared for the seams of his gloves. Worst of all, he was shaking—his entire body trembling from the force of whatever had gripped him.

"V? What's the matter? What's happened?" She crossed the room slowly, stopping only when she had reached his side. A hand lifted, falling lightly upon his shoulder. "V?"

She didn't know whether it was the sound of her voice so close to his ear or the light touch of her fingers, but he jerked away from her, nearly falling against the stove with the most inelegant and uncontrolled movement she had ever seen from him. She backed away, sensing the panic that had overtaken him. Fawkes' black eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, and then he bolted from the kitchen, moving so fast that he was little more than a blur of motion to her eyes.

She didn't see him again for the rest of the day.

Which was probably for the best, really. The ramifications of the incident—the truth she was only just beginning to grasp—gave her enough to think about that the solitude and the silence became welcome companions as the day wore on.

Suspicions were formed during those hours of quiet introspection. Suspicions that combined the drama in the kitchen that morning with a hundred other throw away comments she'd heard slip past the mask—his true mask, the one he wore on the inside and not the outside. She also couldn't help but remember that first day, watching the Count of Monte Cristo with him. She had acknowledged to herself then that there was more to his obsession with the story than met the eye.

And when she lined up all the factors, an equation began to take shape in her mind. An equation that added up to an answer she didn't like to think about.

Even more so since there was one last variable that she simply could not ignore.

She was more than passing familiar with some of Norsefire's more clandestine activities. Silly things like "outside quarantine" meant little when you were part of a group that was always in need of increasingly more hidden locations for meetings.

She had seen the facilities that littered the ravaged landscape of the long abandoned countryside. Worse, she'd seen the mass graves that had been left behind when those facilities were shut down.

Sitting alone in the Gallery while V was off…wherever he was off to…she saw those graves again in her mind's eye. There was a reason that the idea of the government conducting biological testing on human subjects disgusted her as it did—it was because she knew they had already done it. She'd seen the proof of that with her own two eyes.

And if her suspicions were correct, V likely had as well—but from a much different vantage point.

She had glimpsed it from the outside.

But she had a terrible, sickening feeling that V had experienced it first hand from the inside.

*

That night, the news was blanketed with a single story.

Lewis Prothero, the Voice of London, was dead. He had gone peacefully in his sleep, the anchor said, looking appropriately saddened by the news. He would be sorely missed.

To Dara, huddled on the couch with her legs tucked up in front of her, the story itself was as patently false as the affected expression of sympathy that the woman reading it wore. Instinct was one of her greatest assets. It was a tool that she had used to keep herself alive so often that to even think of questioning those little whispers that floated through her mind had become almost sacrilege.

And those whispers were speaking to her now—indeed, they were practically shouting at her.

At the first sound of his booted footsteps approaching, she blew out a breath, but kept her eyes straight ahead. She felt him approach the couch, could sense the nearness of him by the tingling of her nerves. Still, she did not turn away from the television.

"Did you hear?" She asked quietly, carefully regulating her voice. She nodded her head in the direction of the screen. "Lewis Prothero's dead."

Silence then, in which she almost swore she could hear his heartbeat—or, maybe it was her own.

"So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er; the dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more."

If she'd had any doubts, the coldness of his tone would have silenced them. But she hadn't had any doubts, and the confirmation did nothing more than sadden her even further. "You killed him."

"My dear Dara," his tone was measured and perfectly controlled, "what a leading question."

She did move then, clicking the television off as she stood. "Wasn't a question," she said as she turned to face him. Her eyes traced over the mask, over the hat that he had not yet removed and the cloak that was draped over his arm…and across the knives strapped to his belt. "I know you killed him. Don't waste _your_ breath or _my_ time denying it."

He inclined his head slightly. "If that is your wish, I shall comply. I did kill him, yes."

Dara closed her eyes, unconsciously drawing the light sweater she wore tighter around her body. "And you're gonna kill more people, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Her eyes opened again, seeking his in the dim light—she'd left only the hall lamp on, preferring the comforting familiarity of darkness. "I wish you wouldn't."

The impenetrable, unflappable façade cracked slightly then, the mask tilted just so—_confusion_, she named that angle; out of all the angles, she thought she might be able to claim full ownership of that one—and she could almost feel his searching gaze on her face. "Why?"

"Revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils." At V's urging, she'd been reading _Paradise Lost, _and that particular line had resonated with her more than almost any other. And from the moment she'd seen the first report of Prothero's death, it had been rolling through her mind. It summed up her greatest fear in regards to the man standing so calm and collected before her despite the fresh blood on his hands.

"Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged," he shot right back at her, his tone sharp with anger. "Do not play a game of words with me, Dara. Not this night."

"Wasn't trying to," Dara replied, calm still in spite of his growing anger. "But I can't sit quietly by and watch you destroy yourself." She sighed, shrugging helplessly. "I worry about you, V."

"Your concern is unwarranted, unwanted and presumptuous. There is no court in this country for Prothero and his ilk. I am the remedy to that oversight." He turned away, moving toward the one room she had never braved—his own chamber.

There was that appalling arrogance again, and it ignited her temper like a match to a fuse, just as it always did. "You know, it's getting just a bit old having to remind you of this, V…but you're supposed to be _better_ than Norsefire. Naming yourself judge, jury and executioner doesn't quite seem to me to be the way to achieve that."

"You would do well to remember," he growled as his hand wrapped round the handle of is door, 'that you have played the executioner a time or to yourself, my dear. I would hate to have to accuse you of hypocrisy."

Dara lifted her chin defiantly. "When I've killed, it's only ever been for one of two reasons. Either I was defending my own life, or I was saving someone else's. Don't try to compare what I've done with what you did tonight. I've never committed cold-blooded murder."

"You dare call it murder?" He spun back around, flinging his cape across the room. "Lewis Prothero was monstrous and killing him was right and just! That you even attempt to convince me otherwise reveals only _your_ ignorance; it says nothing of _my_ character. And it is that very ignorance of the truth that allows you to champion such a man!"

"Bloody hell, V," Dara shouted, "I'm _not_ championing Prothero. I don't doubt for a minute that he deserved everything he got, and probably more besides. All that concerns me is _you_. You're lowering yourself to _their_ level, borrowing _their _tactics. Norsefire kills without thought, without question and without restraint—I don't wanna be able to say the same about you."

"I do what must be done," he snarled, voice low and full of warning. "I do what no one else will do. Nothing you say will ever alter my course."

"I know I've said this before, but I'll say it again anyway...I'm _not_ trying to alter your course," Dara shot back, "I just want you to be careful how you do what you're doing." She stopped, her shoulders dropping as she began to feel the true futility what she was trying to do. "I don't want you to get so caught up in this vendetta of yours that you lose yourself to it."

"You ask the impossible," V said after a moment, voice thick with some nameless emotion, but no longer angry. "You warn against that which has already come to pass—I _am_ my vengeance, Dara. I cannot be anything but." He turned and retreated toward the darkness of his chamber. "I did not name you my conscience, Dara," he said at last, "so do what is kindest to the both of us, and stop attempting to play its part."

He disappeared entirely then, the door clicking shut behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you to all who have reviewed. I truly appreciate the feedback!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

She woke to the sound of a shout.

Jolting upright, full awake and staring wide eyed into the darkness, Dara could feel her heartbeat pulsing along every nerve in her body. When a second cry pierced the stillness of the Gallery, she was out the door of her room, relying on memory to avoid any obstacles as she dashed through the inky, subterranean blackness.

She paused in the great room to get her bearings and was immediately aware of muffled sounds of anguish. Pinpointing the source of the sounds, she bolted across the expanse of the room and came to a skidding stop at V's door. She pounded on it with a balled fist. "V? What's wrong?" When no answer came, her fist fell heavily against the wood several more times. "V!"

When there was still no response, she dropped her fist back to her side. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, torn between what she knew she should do and what she knew he would want her to do. He had never explicitly forbidden her to enter his chamber, but it had been tacitly understood that she would not do so. Even now, with the sounds of his distress filtering out to her, she was loath to intrude.

Most especially since she had no idea what she might find on the other side of the door.

She'd wondered on occasion whether the mask came off behind the security of that door—whether the man divested himself of the symbol within the confines of his room. It was, at the very least, highly unlikely that he slept in the mask.

And while she didn't care in the least what may or may not lay behind Fawkes' grin, she knew that V most certainly did. She feared he might well view her intrusion as a break in trust, no matter how good her intentions.

Another cry sounded, ending in a gasp of pain.

There was no longer a decision to make. If he couldn't forgive her the trespass, then so be it—but she refused to just stand there like an idiot when he was so obviously suffering.

She wrenched the door open and propelled herself forward into the darkness within. And it was very dark. Her eyes were rendered useless in such complete blackness, so she used her ears and her outstretched hands to search him out instead.

Her legs found the bed first, shins bumping against the footboard hard enough that she fell forward, her hands splaying out on the tangled sheets. The entire bed was shaking from the force of what she now guessed was a nightmare, his body thrashing about on the mattress as he fought the demons in his unconscious mind.

"V?" Her voice was quiet and very carefully modulated. She had seen nightmares like this before. Liz had suffered from horrible night terrors nearly all her life. She'd learned from watching Will that you had to be gentle when waking someone caught in the midst of such a dream, as they had a tendency to react violently to any outside stimuli. It was a lesson that Will had learned the hard way—on their honeymoon, he'd tried to shake her awake and she'd broken his nose in three places.

And as V was considerably stronger than Liz, Dara wasn't about to take any chances.

Feeling her way around the edge of the bed, she stopped when her hand made contact with warm, sweat-soaked flesh. An arm, she surmised, mapping out the logistics in her head. She lifted her hand away from his arm and moved it further up and toward the center of the bed.

"V?" she murmured again. "It's only a dream. You need to wake up."

Another thin cry of pain, another jerk of the unconscious body on the mattress, and suddenly, her searching hand was pressed firmly against more warm flesh. Her fingers brushed against sweat-dampened hair and her breath caught in her throat at the realization that she'd found his face.

_His __face_…

Irresistibly, she turned her hand over and cupped his cheek with her palm while her thumb traced a light caress across his cheekbone. The ridges and valleys of heavy scarring that she found were hardly surprising—she had, after all, seen his hands. Far from repulsed by the tactile evidence of what he had suffered, she instead had to fight the urge to allow her hand to wander further. Her hand itched to skate up to his brow and down to his chin; to map with her fingers the parts of him that she so desperately longed to map with her eyes.

It was a wish that she very much doubted would ever come true. He may have been able to forgive the fact that she had barged into his room uninvited...but this...

She was almost painfully certain that he would never forgive her for _this_.

She leaned forward, lowering her face nearer to the bed. "V," she hummed, still using the gentlest of voices, "listen to me. It's just a dream. Wake up, V." She punctuated the last word with another sweep of her thumb along the arch of his cheekbone.

It seemed to work, though not as entirely as she would have liked. The cries of pain trickled off into soft, heartrending whimpers that brought tears to Dara's eyes. To hear a man like V reduced to such a state, to imagine that Lewis Prothero had been in some way responsible for it…

Suddenly, she was very glad the man was already dead. She would have killed him herself at that moment, and anyone else who had contributed to the agonies the man beneath her touch was suffering.

"It's alright, luv," she murmured, "you're safe. It's just a dream."

She knew the second he woke, could feel it by the sudden tension in the muscle beneath the flesh she touched. Closing her eyes, she waited for what was to inevitably come. But she did not move her hand. She was determined to maintain the contact for as long as he allowed it.

"Dara?" The word was barely a whisper, and laden with so much dread that it twisted her heart.

She opened her eyes, staring toward where she guessed his were in the darkness. "Yeah?"

He jerked back with a hiss, the sounds of him scrambling away from her across the width of the mattress easy to discern. "What are you doing?"

Straightening, Dara continued to stare toward where she guessed him to be. "You were having a nightmare."

His dread was swiftly crystallizing into pained outrage. "You had no right…"

"No, I didn't," she interrupted, hating the desperate, almost hunted tone of his voice. "But I couldn't just stand there and listen to you hurting and not do anything. Go ahead and hate me for it, but I would've hated myself a lot more than you ever could if I _hadn't_ come in here."

Her words seemed to rob him of his ire—she heard him exhale an unsteady breath into the darkness. "Hate you?" He laughed then, an unpleasant warble of sound with the faintest edge of hysteria to it. "To my despair, my dear, I do not think I _could _hate you."

His voice was different without the mask; less resonant, less powerful. He was more human to her at that moment than he had ever been. A pity it would not—_could not_—last.

"I'm sorry I upset you. I'll go if you want me to."

The offer hung heavy in the room. Her phrasing had been deliberately vague. She would allow him to interpret it as he would. There was no doubt in her mind that dismissal was imminent; but whether from the room or from his life altogether—that was the true question. And at that moment, she had no doubt that either scenario was entirely possible.

"Go?" He echoed the word hollowly. "Yes," he continued after a moment, self-loathing thick upon the word, "you will no longer wish to remain here. Not now."

Despite the darkness, she knew that his hand was upon his cheek; could hear the faint rasp of roughened fingers across the skin that her own had so recently tread. Something a little like relief washed over her, warmed her—something that might also have been called love, had she but the energy to properly examine it. But she hadn't the strength left, feeling more drained and exhausted than she had in months. "I'm not leaving the Gallery, V. That wasn't what I meant at all. When I said I'd go, I meant that I'd leave you be and go back to my room if you wanted me to. That's all."

He sucked in a breath. "You would stay? Even after…"

"Like I said," Dara interrupted, "I'm not planning on leaving. But if you want me to, V, just say the word and I'm gone."

"I do not understand you," his voice was harsh now, full of doubt and anger born of helplessness. "You have seen…you have felt…"

"I haven't _seen_ anything," Dara cut in again. "Didn't turn on any lights, did I? I knew you were gonna be angry enough as it was about me coming in here to begin with. Thought if I left the lights out and preserved at least some of your privacy, you might be a bit more forgiving. And as for what I _felt_," here, she paused, searching for just the right words. "What I felt," she said at last, "was _you_, V. I know you'll never believe me, but the rest is just details as far as I'm concerned."

Nothing but silence followed, and she suspected nothing would. Sighing, she edged her way back around the bed, pausing at its end with her hand trailing over the footboard. "I'm going to my room. If you want me to leave tomorrow after you've had a chance to think, then fine. But for right now, I'm going back to sleep—which is what you should try to do too. Good night, V."

She walked out of his room then, closing the door behind her and forcing herself not to look back as she crossed the Gallery.

*

Despite Dara's rather pointed suggestion, there would be no more sleep for him that night.

V knew that as surely as he knew that everything had changed; the old song had ended and a new one begun—and he had no idea what the words were. It was an unfamiliar, alarming feeling, and yet, he did not know that he would have it any other way.

But…he could, if he so chose. She had made that perfectly clear.

She would not choose to go herself, but he could force her out and be done with her altogether. He could see her to the door and return to the life he had carved out for himself with such painstaking precision. He could remove her from the equation entirely and return his full attention to his plans without her warnings and her censures constantly drawing him off course.

Yes, he _could_ tell her to leave…

…but he wouldn't.

Because the words to make her go were simply not within his power; indeed, he questioned whether such words even existed within his rather expansive personal lexicon. She had become somehow essential to him, to the rhythms of the world he had built for himself. Her presence was a single, shining joy burning bright in the shadowed periphery of his single-minded world, constant and ubiquitous. Her smile alone could lighten his heaviest thoughts, and the potent power of her laughter easily vanquished even the very blackest of his moods—a respite that he had begun to crave more and more as time went by.

And now…after what she had done…after what she had said…

He dropped bonelessly into his dressing chair, his body once more safely secreted away beneath layers of thick, black fabric. Glancing up, he met his eyes in the mirror. Habit generally kept his gaze from straying so high, but tonight…tonight he could not help himself. His eyes slid downward, irresistibly drawn to the cheek that still tingled from her touch. Studying the patch of scarred skin, he lifted a gloved hand, one finger landing on his cheekbone to chase the phantom memory of her touch.

Her skin had been so very soft against his; so very, very soft. And warm. Deliciously warm.

And her scent…

A week or so after she had come to live in his world, she had brought him a list of the toiletries to which she was accustomed in the world above and asked that he procure them for her. He had dismissed the request at first, declaring that she could very well use the generic soaps and shampoos that he himself did. Her response to that had been an arched brow and stony silence, the list in her hand hovering between them as they stared one another down.

He'd had her things to her the next day. She'd been absolutely insufferable about it.

From that day on, the faint aroma of lavender and vanilla had seemed to permeate the entire Gallery. He regularly complained that the combination was cloying and unpleasant, but he knew now that he would never say another word about it. On her skin, the blend of perfumes was heady rather cloying, and utterly—_utterly—_intoxicating.

Which, to be perfectly honest, could be said about far more than just the scent of her shampoo.

_Too close_, his mind hissed at him, _you have let her too close. She will be the death of everything you have worked toward for twenty years._

It was a sobering thought—and, perhaps, a little too true. In three months, she had managed to insinuate herself so completely into his life that his day could not truly begin until he saw her stumble barefoot, bleary-eyed and sleep-rumpled, into the kitchen—just as it could not truly end without her gentle smile and the fleeting touch of her fingers upon his hand or arm that always accompanied her goodnights.

He had known instinctively, from the very first moment that he laid eyes on her, that she would be important to him. At the time, he had assumed that her importance would extend no further than his plans; that she would prove a useful tool in one way or another. He had never imagined in those first moments that she would ever become what she had become to him.

She had woken something in him, something new and fragile and so unexpected that it baffled him. It could not be called love—not yet, at least, though he grimly suspected that it would not be long before it would be.

But that was not what really concerned him. Oh no…there was something infinitely worse than love stirring within him now. And while he rebelled against the knowledge with every fiber of his being, he could not deny the truth.

Earlier that evening, as he bore down upon Lewis Prothero with the weight of his righteous vengeance behind him...he had suffered a moment's hesitation. As he had told her, Prothero had more than earned his fate, and yet he had questioned himself. It had been a brief lapse, but a significant one.

At the time, he had ignored the fact that the voice asking the questions had sounded suspiciously like Dara's. Now, though, he could think of nothing else.

He had told her earlier that had not named her his conscience. But it appeared that she had somehow managed to make herself just that. And he knew, with conviction, that it was a position that she would not be relinquishing anytime soon.

Whatever action he took in the future, she would be there. Every plan that he made and every wrong that he avenged, her voice would be in his head—questioning, measuring and dispensing judgment.

Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he pulled the mask from the pedestal it rested upon. Holding it between two hands, he stared down at its face. For the first time in a very long time—certainly since the first time he had killed from behind its visage—he did not see himself in Fawkes' eternal grin. For the first time in a very long time, the cool metal in his hands was nothing more than a mask.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

By unspoken agreement, neither of them ever mentioned what had happened the night that Lewis Prothero died. V was a bit quieter than usual; and he did freeze up momentarily every time she walked into a room, but as the days passed it seemed they both went out of their way to pretend that nothing had happened at all.

It was not, perhaps, the healthiest way to deal with the issue, but avoidance was far preferable to the seething rage she'd expected from him. If he was content to pretend nothing had occurred, then she was perfectly willing to play along.

She was, however, particularly careful not to treat him any differently than she had before. Having told him that she didn't care about what lay beneath his mask, she wasn't about to give him any reason to think she'd lied.

Yes, he was scarred. Yes, it was very likely that he was quite horribly disfigured. Did that change her opinion of him?

Not even in the slightest.

If anything, her feelings for him had only grown with the discovery. She still wasn't quite ready to call it love, even to herself. But that would come with time. She was no longer in any doubt of that.

She had also come to a very important decision.

Over the days and nights that had passed since _that night_, she'd come to realize that she was now just as passionate about his vengeance as he was. He had been right when he'd dismissed her reproaches over Prothero's death as ignorance. She was ignorant. She had no idea what Prothero had done to earn the fate that V had dealt him, but she was no longer the least bit inclined to believe that V had been out of line.

She'd lectured V about keeping sight of the higher purpose and not mistaking simple revenge for vengeance—and oddly enough, she still stood firmly behind her censures. He was too great a man to allow himself to sink to the level of his enemies.

On the other hand, she was just plain old Dara Turner. There was nothing even remotely great about her and the only standards she had to live up to were her own. And if Lewis Prothero had been in any way responsible for what had happened to V, then he had deserved what he got and more. As did anyone else who had been involved in what happened to him.

They would all be held accountable. V had been quite clear about that.

And she would be right there beside him—lending aide if aide was needed, or simply bearing silent witness to the righting of a terrible wrong. She would be whatever he needed her to be.

The only catch was getting him to agree. He was an intensely private man, and she knew that making him see that she could be an asset to him in such situations was going to take a good deal of convincing. But she would do her level best to make him understand that a second set of eyes could be a good thing to have about with so much at stake.

That was the task she set herself that day. It had been two weeks now since _that night_, and while he was still quieter than he had been, he no longer tensed the instant she walked into the room—he had even recovered enough to again sit beside her on the couch with her when they watched television, rather than sitting in the armchair across the room.

Emerging from her bedroom after a mid-day reading session, she sought him out.

He had taken advantage of the quiet to read as well she discovered, finding him tucked away into one of the many alcoves in the main chamber with a book in hand. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, and she knew that he had taken note of her presence. But he didn't lower his book, nor did he offer any greeting.

Perhaps things weren't quite as well mended as she thought.

Frowning now and suddenly hesitant to approach any further, she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around her left wrist, twisting absently—a nervous habit left over from childhood. "V?"

He neither dropped the book from the level of his eyes nor offered a word of greeting, but she knew that she had his full attention.

"I need to ask you something," she began, moving until she was beside his chair, "and I need you to listen to me with an open mind and honestly consider my request before you answer."

Now, the book did lower while the mask tilted up. "I would never presume to give you anything but the fullest answer of which I was capable."

A ghost of a smile curved the right side of her mouth. "In that case," she blew out a quick, fortifying breath. "I wanna help you...will you let me?"

There it was again—her own special angle—_confusion_. "Help me?"

"Yeah," she decided to just get it out there. _In for a penny, in for a pound_. "I wanna help you any way I can—both against Norsefire itself, and with any more like Prothero."

He was silent for a long moment, and then a new angle presented itself. It was only after he spoke that she was able to recognize what this one signified_._

"I confess myself surprised by your offer," it was there in his voice as it was in the tilt of his chin—_suspicion. _It cut her as nothing else had done in the course of their acquaintance. "I recall your words to me upon the occasion of Prothero's death, damning me for appointing myself as judge, jury and executioner. That you would now seek to lower yourself to my level is curious, to say the least."

Dara took an involuntary step back. She dropped her arms to her sides as her expression turned incredulous. She had expected he would throw her words back at her, but she hadn't expected _this_. "You...you're questioning my motives?"

V lowered his head and lifted his book. "You will forgive me, of course, if I find your change of heart somewhat suspect, my dear. And as I have no way of discerning your true intentions, the answer is obviously no."

"Discerning my true intentions?" Dara continued to stare at him, his profile cutting a sharp line against the darkness of the walls around him. "I can't believe you would accuse me…"

"I have accused you of nothing," V interrupted smoothly. "I simply do not understand what has induced you to make such an offer."

"Well there's an obvious solution to that," Dara shot back. "You could ask me straight out, couldn't you?"

"I could at that," V agreed, turning a page with his eyes still focused upon the book. "Or, even more obvious, my dear, you could simply tell me. I have never known you to require prompting to speak your mind."

"What's the matter with you?" She nearly stamped her foot, but caught herself before the urge could translate into action. She doubted V would have ever let her live down such a display. "You're being deliberately confrontational!"

"Yes, I am." He turned another page, but he hadn't read it anymore than he had the past three or four pages to pass beneath his fingers. "And I find myself enjoying it exceedingly. Tell me, my dear, as I have no frame of reference by which to judge my performance—am I doing an admirable job of it?"

Self-control became the sole focus of her world for a few long moments. Wrestling with the urge to knock the book from his hands and start screaming bloody murder at him, she balled her hands into fists so tight that she could feel her nails scoring her skin. "You," she hissed out finally, "are by far the most infuriating man in all of England."

"Oh come now, my dear," he chided, voice laced with the sort of indulgence one might expect to be shown to a small child, "surely you are being overdramatic. You cannot possibly know _all _the men in England."

Dara made a strangled sound of frustration, which was quickly swallowed by anger. Stalking forward, she did just what she'd wanted to do—she swatted the book from his hands with nearly the full force of her strength, sending it flying across the alcove. It hit the wall hard, knocking a lovely Impressionist landscape to the floor before landing square atop an old Victorian cordial set which promptly shattered upon contact, sending shards of colored glass everywhere.

_That_ got his attention. "That was rather uncalled for, I think...and hardly dignified"

"_Fuck_ dignified," Dara snarled as she leaned down toward him, glaring daggers through the black-screened eye slits of the mask. "You wanna know why I wanna help you? I'll tell you why—_that_ night, V. I wanna help you because of what happened the night you killed Prothero. After everything that happened that night, I came to the conclusion that anyone who could do what was done to you, doesn't deserve to live. _That _night, I heard pain and I heard fear in your voice, V," her expression turned cold and unforgiving. "Now I wanna hear it in theirs."

"Again I am surprised," his voice was strained, but not so much that she could fail to miss the mocking tone of it. "To think that I could effect such a change—that I could, literally without conscious volition, inspire such a thirst for vengeance on my behalf. Truly, it is a wondrous and mildly daunting achievement."

He was determined not to understand, and she was swiftly approaching the end of her patience. As she suspected that screaming at him was hardly going to get her what she wanted, a strategic retreat was in order. Spinning on her heel, she walked away from him. "My offer stands indefinitely," she snapped over her shoulder, trying very hard not to imagine how satisfying it would be to strangle him. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

*

It was perhaps two hours later that the sound of a throat clearing drew her attention. She was sitting at the dressing table in her room, hunched over its smooth rosewood finish while she read. When she looked up, her eyes found V's via the reflection in the mirror before her.

"I trust you have not changed your mind about helping?"

"Said the offer stood, didn't I?" she replied, brow arching at him. "Why? Decided to take me up on it?"

A pause, followed by a single nod of his head. "A situation has arisen which requires an acceleration of my plans. If you are willing, there is a part for you to play in them—a part that I believe shall benefit greatly from your...flair for the dramatic."

"Just tell me what to do, V," Dara turned around, facing him in truth and ignoring the mild dig he'd gotten in, "and I'll do it the very best that I can."

Another nod, though slower this time, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. "Yes, my dear, I do believe you shall," he replied, then turned to walk away.

Dara frowned. "Wait a minute! Aren't you gonna tell me what you want me to do?"

He leaned back around the corner. "Of course I shall. Why?"

Dara shook her head. Frustrating, infuriating man. "Because I'd like to know, that's why. You aren't seriously gonna just leave me guessing are you?"

"All in good time, my dear. Tomorrow will be here soon enough, and you shall know everything then. But for now, have patience."

He ducked out of her room entirely then, and she stared long at the spot he had just occupied. A tickertape of adjectives rolled through her mind—all of them about him, and none of them kind.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Adult themes ahead. I wanted to give a heads up and let everyone know that there is an attempted rape scene in this chapter. I have tried to convey the reality of the situation without getting too terribly graphic. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing...except for Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"You want me to wear _this_?"

V smirked behind the mask at Dara's appalled expression. She was holding the dress he had procured—her costume, as it were—out in front of her, brow knit with distaste. "It is, I assure you, entirely appropriate."

Shifting her gaze up to him, Dara hooked a finger under the collar, holding the dress away from her. "It's too short," she complained, "and the neckline's too low." Her nose scrunched. "And it's _pink_."

She said that last as if it was by far the worst, which only made V smile more. "You do not like pink?"

Her glare was cutting. "You ever seen me wear pink?"

No, he hadn't. And he suspected that he never would—her wardrobe was nearly as monochromatic as his. Admittedly, that had been one of reasons he had selected the garment in question. She was never more fascinating to him than when she was vexed with him and he had become quite entranced by the way her eyes flashed a warning fire when her patience drew to its end.

He also thought that she might, with her raven hair and porcelain skin, look quite fetching in pink. But he certainly couldn't tell her that. "Honestly, my dear, I hardly notice what you wear."

Her glare fell away into a flinch, and she dropped her eyes from his. "Right," she mumbled, "why would you?"

The hurt in her voice was palpable, and V frowned as he watched her gather the rest of the costume together. "Dara…if I have somehow offended…"

"I'm fine, V," she cut in, tilting her head up and offering him a patently false and obviously forced smile. "I'm gonna go change, and then you're gonna tell me what it is you need me to do."

After she had left the room, V retreated to his own chamber, collecting his hat and cloak, and donning his belt and knives. She had not emerged when he had finished, and he wandered over to the Wurlitzer while he waited, casually flipping through page after page of songs.

"I've got an awful feeling, V," Dara's voice cut across the stillness of the Gallery, "that I'm really not gonna like what you're gonna ask me to do."

He turned…and forgot how to breathe.

Taking full advantage of the freedom the mask allowed, he raked his eyes over her. And with every inch of newly revealed flesh that his gaze traversed, he grew more and more certain that the decision to utilize her in the fashion he had planned was a horrible mistake.

He had said that he hardly noticed what she wore—but at that moment, he could notice nothing else.

The dress was everything she had accused it of being and more. The skirt with its frilled petticoat was extremely short, falling only to her mid-thigh. The scoop of the neckline was _very_ low, revealing far more of the soft swell of her breasts than he was entirely comfortable with. The pink high-heeled Mary-Jane's, strapped over knee-high white stockings, elongated her short frame and drew the eye irresistibly to the lean lines of her legs.

She had added her own finishing touches to the ensemble as well, having apparently come to all the horribly correct conclusions regarding the purpose of her costume. Her hair had been split into two pigtails high on either side of her head, emphasizing the sharpness of her cheekbones and reinforcing the overall effect of the outfit. Conversely, she had lined her eyes with black and accentuated them with smoky gray, adding a subtle sultriness to the otherwise calculated innocence of her appearance.

She looked like walking sin—the very personification of temptation.

"Well," Dara huffed, her hands on her hips, "do I look my part?"

_And so much more,_ his mind whispered darkly. He flinched beneath the mask at the thought. "To perfection," he replied. He nodded once in her direction. "Your hair adds an interesting touch."

"The pigtails?" She reached up and ran her fingers through one long fall of black hair, grimacing slightly. "Disturbing as it is, they sort of seemed to go with the outfit. You know, I'd really like to know exactly what you're expecting me to do, V. This kit makes me uncomfortable on so many different levels I can't even begin to list them all."

"I will explain on the way," he replied. Keeping his eyes upon her face had suddenly become an exercise in self-control. "We should be going now, my dear. Fetch your coat…it is quite cold above."

She arched a brow. "Oh, I'll get my coat…but I'm more concerned about keeping this outfit _in_ than the cold _out_."

The view from behind was nearly as breathtaking as the one from the front, and V averted his gaze with a low hiss. Had the circumstances been different, he may have allowed himself to savor the image of her—he was a man, after all, and on occasion subject to the same weaknesses as any other man. But as things stood, knowing whose tastes that costume had been specifically chosen to appeal to, it seemed not only wrong to take any pleasure from her appearance, but shameful as well.

When she returned, every button on her coat was fastened. Her obvious discomfort made the room suddenly feel too small, and V extended a hand toward her. "Come, my dear. The sooner this is done, the better."

Coming to stand beside him, Dara gave him a rueful look. "I've got no idea what we're doing, but I can't help but agree with you."

V turned, ready to offer some small reassurance about the part she was to play. But the sight of her left ear, peeking out from beneath wisps of black hair, stayed his tongue and captured his complete attention.

Generally speaking, ears held very little interest for him—one was very much like another, after all.

And, strictly speaking, that was exactly the case with this ear. Small and delicate, like the rest of her features, it seemed very much an ordinary ear…save for the fact that the almost the entire lobe was missing. Beneath that, V's eyes traced the jagged line of a very wicked looking scar as it cut an angry path down her neck.

How had he never noticed it before?

Dara, sensing his intense scrutiny, frowned up at him. "What're you staring at?"

When one black gloved finger lifted to lightly brush against the shell of her ear, she jerked away. "'Scuse me," she snapped, shaking her head so that the appendage in question was hidden behind a curtain of ebony hair.

V drew back sharply, regretting the momentary lapse in focus that had allowed his hand to traverse the distance between them. "Forgive me, my dear. I meant no offense…but…may I ask…?"

"No," Dara interrupted, "you may not, so let's just get on with this, yeah?"

Her tone brooked no argument—and V was in no mood to test her resolve. Instead, he only nodded, and then extended his hand toward the main door of the gallery, inviting her to precede him. "Shall we then, my dear?"

*

As Dara stood in the small anteroom she had been shown into, she went over the plan V had outlined for her carefully in her head. Given what he was expecting her to do, she wanted to be sure that there was absolutely no room for error. The highest ranking member of the British clergy was about to be executed—and in his own private chambers no less. If they weren't careful, the potential for the whole thing to fall apart was limitless. Literally dozens of variables were going to have to line up flawlessly for this plan to succeed.

She had already unlatched the small window behind her as soon as she'd been left alone, just as V had instructed. Now, she had nothing to do but wait.

The aide that had shown her into the room returned about five minutes after leaving her, a tray in his hands. Dara eyed it, sickened by the mere sight of the glass of milk and plate of cookies. A litany of curses began coursing through her mind—_sick fucking pedophile bastard_—and any lingering hesitation she might have suffered evaporated completely.

"A gift from His Grace," the aide said, setting the tray down upon a small table, "to make you feel more comfortable."

Her first instinct was to throw the tray into his face and to beat the oily little sycophant into a bloody pulp. He had delivered those lines with a familiar ease that was truly nauseating. How many girls had he plied with those treats, buying their cooperation with a few morsels of sugar?

He was watching her expectantly, and she knew that—given the delicacy of V's plan—it would be stupid to make him suspicious in any way. So she held her tongue firmly in check and crossed the room, picking up a cookie and the glass with a carefully arranged smile. "Thank you!"

It almost choked her to swallow the cookie, but a few large gulps of the milk helped to get it down. When she had finished both, she set the glass down and smiled again at the aide. "That was very good!"

The aide smiled in return and nodded. "Excellent," he stepped aside, motioning toward the door. "I will take you to His Grace now."

"Ok," Dara said, her voice candy-coated.

As she was ushered into the expansive opulence of the Bishop's private chamber, she began to realize that the milk and cookies had been more than a simple bribe—they had been insurance. Whatever drugs they had been laced with were already working, relaxing her muscles and blurring the edges of her vision.

Blinking rapidly, she shook her head, trying to clear it even though she knew it was futile. Based on the speed of the reaction she was having, she suspected that she had been given too large a dose. That suspicion was lent credence by the fact that the Bishop's aide had been perturbed that she was "older than His Grace's usual". Likely expert at dosing children, he would have had to guess at the amount required for someone of her size, and perhaps added a dash more for good measure.

This was definitely going to throw a big, giant hitch in their plans. Her job once V arrived was to keep watch and incapacitate anyone who stumbled upon them. A few more minutes and she would barely be able to stand, let alone fight in any way.

The door creaked open. It took determination dredged from the very depths of her being to lift her head and greet the Bishop with a slow, deep curtsey. It wasn't nearly as graceful as she'd intended, but she thought that could be forgiven under the circumstances. "Good afternoon, Your Grace."

"Oh," Bishop Lilliman crossed the room toward her slowly, eyes raking over every inch of her flesh and looking quite put out. "Philip said you were older. He did not say you were a _woman_."

Dara's stomach turned from more than just the drugs. Luckily, they had planned for this, and V had given her lines to be used if the Bishop had balked at her age—lines that she would never have been able to write for herself. She forced her features into some semblance of a come-hither look, hoping it looked enticing rather than nauseated. "I'm not so very grown up, Your Grace. And I promise you, sir, that what I lack in innocence…" she paused and assumed a childlike pose—she clasped her arms behind her skirt and cocked one leg behind the other; she dipped her chin, bit her lower lip and looked up at him from beneath her mascaraed lashes, "…I make up for with imagination."

The Bishop's eyes widened, his pupils dilating in a way that told her very clearly that her age was rapidly becoming a non-issue. "My dear," he breathed, taking a step toward her and licking his lips, "to think I almost turned you away." He lifted his hands into a gesture of prayer. "Mea culpa, my child," he murmured, "Mea maxima culpa."

She should have been thrilled. He'd bought in to the illusion V had built, which was precisely what she'd wanted. But the perverted old lech was ogling her as if she were a particularly mouth-watering delicacy that he just couldn't wait to sample. Between that and the drugs coursing through her veins, she wanted nothing more than to lean over and empty the contents of her stomach right there on the Bishop's fine—and likely authentic—Persian carpet.

_Any minute now, _she told herself. _V will be here any minute now and then it'll be all over._

Curving her lips into a wanton grin, she brought her hands around and curled her fingers into the fabric of her skirt, drawing it up to reveal even more of her thighs. "Tell me, Your Grace…what's your pleasure?"

Lilliman shuddered appreciatively—she was either better at this than she thought, or he was just very easy to please; either way though, everything was working out splendidly—and closed the distance between them. When only scant inches separated them, he lifted his hand to caress her hair, fingers combing through the length of one pigtail. "My pleasure? " Suddenly, his fingers snapped closed, twisting her hair round his fist and yanking her toward him with a vicious tug. He leaned in toward her, his breath hot against her ear. "Why, I should think that would be obvious, my child."

Dara cried out at the sharp pain that shot through her scalp, one hand instinctively coming up to grab at the fingers wrapped in her hair. "What…"

His other hand shot up and clamped over her mouth. He stepped in closer to her, forcing his knee between her legs and grinding against her hip. "My pleasure, my dear child, is to make you beg." He dropped his head and ran his tongue across the skin beneath her right ear, then sunk his teeth into her ear lobe. Dara's scream, muffled against his hand, only seemed to excite him further. "Oh yes, I shall make you beg." He pulled back, his eyes met hers and the look he gave her was terrifying. "And then, my dearest little whore, I shall break you like the mongrel bitch that you are."

When he dropped his hand from her mouth, Dara let out a choked sob and slammed her eyes shut. Any moment now, V would come crashing into the room and the whole thing would be over. In the meantime, she had a part to play. A part she had promised to play to perfection.

She could do this.

_Just a few more moments…_

She tried very hard not to think about the fact that, if something had gone wrong…if V didn't come…she wouldn't have the strength to fight the Bishop off.

"Please, Your Grace," she murmured, opening her tear-filled eyes to look at the Bishop, "you're hurting me."

The hand not wrapped in her hair wrapped around her neck with just enough force to make her gasp. Lilliman grinned and bent to sweep his tongue across her parted lips. "I do hope so, little whore."

He began to walk her backwards and Dara closed her eyes again, the reassurance that it would only be a few more moments running on permanent repeat through her mind. So absorbed in her mantra was she that she jumped in surprise when the backs of her thighs bumped into the Bishop's bed.

Dara's eyes flew open, her internal dialogue grinding to a halt at the vicious intent in the eyes that met hers. At that moment, she came to the chilling realization that she was in serious trouble.

_Just a few more moments_, her heart chanted, _and he'll be here._

_Just a few more moments, _her mind sang back, _and he'll be too late._

The Bishop released her hair and neck only to give her a brutal shove, snapping her backwards onto the mattress. Before she could react, he had flung himself atop her, pinning her down. For the first time, panic began to set in beneath the drug-induced haze, and Dara began to struggle, swatting at the hands now roving over her body. "No," she gasped, "stop!"

Lilliman's response was a throaty chuckle. "Yes, yes," he hissed at her ear, the full length of his body pressing against hers, "fight me. Fight me _hard_." His hand found her breast, squeezing with bruising force.

That was it. The panic took over completely then, and Dara began to resist him in earnest, punching and kicking with arms and legs that had none of their usual strength. It was agonizing, it was humiliating. It was futile. Her blows were glancing at best and did absolutely nothing to deter Lilliman. Rather, he seemed to thrive on her fearful struggles.

In spite of herself, Dara felt tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

This couldn't be happening. Not to her. She was a fighter, a killer. Things like this didn't happen to women like her.

"No…no _please_," she cried when his fingers began to fumble with the fastenings on the front of the dress. She twisted her body to the side and attempted to roll away, but he merely readjusted and pinned her more firmly to the mattress. He once more wrapped a hand around her throat, holding her in place while is other hand, abandoning the fastenings, began to tear at the fabric.

_Where is he? Where the fuck is he?_

The thought screamed through her brain as she felt the fabric of her dress give way, and she very nearly screamed aloud when she felt his fingers close over a now bare breast. She managed to keep her tongue in check, but the impulse to scream was too great to be denied. She opened her mouth, but was silenced by Lilliman's mouth sliding over hers. At the first sweep of his tongue against her own, she did the only thing she had strength left for—she bit down until the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth.

Lilliman jerked backwards with a yelp of pained surprise. He swiped his hand across his mouth, the skin coming away stained with blood and his eyes blazed with fury. "You little bitch!" Her head snapped sideways with the force of his fisted backhand. "You fucking little whore!"

Distantly, through the now combined haze of drugs and injury, Dara heard the clink of his belt buckle and the swish of his zip being lowered. She let out a choked sob and tried desperately to crawl away from him, but Lilliman's hands were back on her almost immediately, yanking her back toward him. "You want to play rough, little whore," he growled in her face. "I'll show you rough!"

A strangled, desperate cry tore from Dara's throat when he thrust his hand beneath her skirt, his fingers finding the tender skin of her inner thigh and clamping down there with brutal force. His other hand wrapped around her throat once again and he leaned over her, pressing his lips near her ear as he dragged his hand up to her knickers, his nails digging ragged tracks into her skin.

"You like that…don't you, you filthy little slut." His tongue snaked out, catching and tracing the shell of her ear. "All whores do…they love to be fucked…dirty, foul, polluted…"

When the door crashed open, the litany of filth streaming from Lilliman's lips halted abruptly. Dara was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of black streak across the room, and then suddenly, the Bishop's weight disappeared from atop her. She rolled onto her side and curled in on herself, gathering the tattered remnants of her clothing about her as she finally allowed herself to sob in earnest.

*

Something had not gone according to plan.

That much became glaringly obvious to V the moment he burst into the room to find Lilliman leaning over Dara, his pants around his ankles and his hand…

He was across the room before he had time to fully process the scene before him, utilizing his uncanny speed to reach the Bishop before he could do any further damage. He allowed himself only a fleeting glance at Dara as he tore Lilliman off her, but that single look was enough to set his blood ablaze.

Whirling away from the bed, he stalked across the room to where Lilliman had fallen. The Bishop, struggling to pull on his pants, was staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes. V loomed over the cowering Lilliman, a rage like none he'd ever felt before running through his veins.

"And thus I clothe my naked villainy, with odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil."

"Please!" Lilliman was kneeling now, pants only halfway on, hands clasped before him and tears running down his face. "Have mercy!"

"Oh, not today, Bishop," V growled, extracting a knife from his belt with a practiced twirl before bringing the point of it to rest against Lilliman's throat. "There is no mercy to be had this day—not for you." His self-control was dangerously near to its breaking point, and the broken sobs issuing from the bed behind him were doing nothing to improve the situation. Leaning forward, he brought his lips near to Lilliman's ear. "How _dare_ you touch her!"

Lilliman, eyes wide now with disbelief, glanced quickly between the masked man before him and the bed beyond and then back again. "_That's_ what this is about? A whore? A dirty, filthy…"

The tip of the dagger dug further into his flesh, drawing a drop of blood and effectively silencing him. "Were your treatment of that girl the only sin at your door, then you would still die this night, I assure you. But you've more than that to answer for, my good Bishop." He extracted a rose from the depths of his cloak with his free hand. "You recognize this, do you not, Your Grace?"

Lilliman's eyes widened in horror at the sight of the flower clasped in V's black-gloved fingers. "A Scarlet Carson," he breathed, eyes jumping back and forth between the rose and the man holding it. "Scarlet Carson," he repeated. "You! Oh God…please! Don't kill me! Please!"

V tucked the rose into Lilliman's shirt, patting it once. "I wonder, dear Bishop, if such cries from the lips of others have ever moved you to mercy?" He reached again into his tunic, this time, pulling out a small white capsule. "I see the answer written in your eyes, just as it is in my memory." He reached forward, forcing the capsule between Lilliman's trembling lips and then clamping his fingers over the Bishop's mouth. "The time has come to reap that which you have sown, old man."

The poison was swift by design, and it took only moments for the seizures to begin. A sharp shove sent Lilliman's body sprawling backwards upon the floor. V stood over him, bearing silent and deeply satisfying witness to his last desperate gasps for air. When finally the Bishop lay unmoving at his feet, V turned away, moving to the bed in several ground-eating strides.

"Dara," his voice was urgent, "we must go."

Slowly, her eyes turned up to his, and the vague dullness that stared out at him from behind her tears was both confusing and sickening. "Dara…what has he done to you?"

"Drugged," she managed to whisper past dry lips.

A fresh wave of anger broke over him, but he reined it in. They had precious little time, and certainly could not afford to waste even a second of it on a lapse of self-control. The room was most certainly monitored by a closed-circuit camera system, and the guards would most certainly be on their way by now. "Can you walk?"

"Will…try," she said faintly, slowly uncurling from the protective ball she had tucked herself into, though her hands stayed clasped firmly at her neckline, holding together the torn pieces of her dress. She dropped her legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. Almost immediately, her muscles seized and she fell back to the mattress. "Sorry," she sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Can't."

"Never you mind, my dear." Leaning down, V scooped her into his arms. "Hold on to me as best you can."

He hurried across the room, stepping over Lilliman's body to get to the large windows lining the wall beyond. Kicking one open, he leapt out onto the roof just as the first sounds of shouts and approaching footsteps trickled from down the hall. He took a moment to adjust his grip upon her, clasping her tighter against him.

Carrying her was a burden he had not foreseen, but it was one that he could easily manage. The hardest part was keeping out of sight, but even that was not overly difficult for of his physical talents. He had them back beneath the streets quickly and without incident.

It was only once they were concealed within the old tube system that he realized Dara had passed out—her head was tipped forward, chin resting on her chest; one arm dangled limply beside her.

Because of the angle of her head and the limited line of sight provided by the mask, he could not see much of her face—but he could see enough. The mark of what he assumed to be Lilliman's hand cut an angry red path across the cheek that he could see, and his lips tightened into a furious line. It was going to be an awful bruise. Already it was swelling, and he knew that it would soon darken to a deep, livid purple.

Guilt and recriminations swiftly began to gnaw at him, reminding him cruelly that she lay there in his arms with her dress in tatters and that mark on her cheek…because of him. Worse, this would be the third time that he had carried into his home injured and unconscious…because of him.

It was a situation that had not gotten any easier to bear with repetition.

Once the door of the Gallery had closed behind him, he made directly for Dara's room, placing her down upon the mattress as gently as possible. The ragged remains of the pink dress caught and held his gaze, mocking him with the knowledge that it was his fault that she was laying there.

He would have given the world to strip that fabric from her body—to remove it and all it stood for from her skin; to take it to the roof and burn it. But instead, he drew the neatly folded blanket from the foot of the bed up and over her, covering her completely and taking great care not to touch her. Now that he had set her down, he found himself strangely unwilling to make any further contact. In fact, he could barely even look at her.

The image of Lilliman standing over her, about to…

It was a terrible pity that men had only one life to lose. Lilliman had died for the greatest of his sins; poisoned, just as he had allowed so many hundreds of thousands to be poisoned. But nothing would have satisfied V more than to introduce the Good Bishop to his knives.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

She slept the day away.

V checked on her regularly—partly out of necessity, but more out of a need to reassure himself that she was all right. Luckily, it appeared to be a sound sleep that held her, free of the fitful tossing and turning that he would have expected. But the fact that she did not appear to be suffering from any nightmares was not necessarily heartening—or indicative of how she would feel when she woke. Likely, the drugs she had been given were to blame for her undisturbed slumber.

At half past eleven that evening, the creak of hinges alerted him that she was awake. Laying his book aside, he waited for her to appear. He was eager to see her, though he had no idea what, if anything, he should say to her. What had happened was bad enough, but all he could think about was how very much worse it could have been had he been delayed even a few seconds longer. How did one even begin to apologize for putting a woman into such a situation?

His jaw tightened, fists clenching with red-hot fury.

If the scene he'd walked in on had been…_worse_…

He knew, without question, that all purpose would have been forgotten. There would have been no symbolic death for Lilliman. A dagger—or six—would have been buried so deep the Bishop's back that retrieving them would have been a chore.

The rushing sound of water through the pipes jarred him from his thoughts, and he felt inordinately glad of the temporary reprieve it granted him. She was taking a shower, which was hardly surprising. He had taken a long one himself after getting her settled that afternoon, letting the hot water flow over him until it had run cold. Even after that, he'd still felt unclean. That she would seek the same seemed natural; she did, after all, have a great deal more to wash away than he did.

It was nearing a quarter past midnight when she did finally appear.

She stalked into the room, dressed all in black, her damp hair hanging loose over her shoulders. The skin on her face was scrubbed raw and red, save for the swath of angry purple that marred one cheek. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from crying, but her expression reflected nothing of the turmoil she must certainly have been going through. Indeed, her face was blank of all expression—her eyes colder than ice.

She stopped in front of him, dumping the armful of pink clothing she'd been carrying on the floor at his feet. "I never wanna see these things again," she said, her tone also devoid of feeling. "Get rid of them."

"They will be gone this very night," he assured. No great burden that—he wanted done with them nearly as much as she did.

Without even so much as a nod of acknowledgement, she moved past him. He followed her with his eyes, noting the gloves on her hands and the tightly laced boots on her feet. "What are you doing?"

"Going out," she said flatly.

He was on his feet and at her side before she realized he had moved. "You most certainly are not. You are in no condition to go anywhere."

"On the contrary," she retorted, retrieving her new sword from the table it had been gathering dust on for far too long now, "I'm in perfect condition to do what I plan to do." She swung her eyes up to his, glaring at him. "And I really wouldn't recommend you try and stop me, V. Not with the mood I'm in tonight."

She spun away from him, buckling the sword round her waist as she headed for the door.

V moved faster though, reaching the door before she did and planting himself firmly in front of it. "You are not thinking clearly, Dara. As such, you are going nowhere."

"Get outta my way, V." Her voice was hard.

He didn't budge, merely crossed his arms over his chest. "I will not allow you to act so irrationally. You are a wanted woman, if you will remember. You cannot simply go wandering about London—and most certainly not in the state you are in. I have never heard of a more ill conceived plan! You could be captured or worse…"

"Raped?" Dara interjected viciously, spitting the word out. "Could it get me raped? Oh wait…I almost forgot…that's what _your_ ingenious plans are for, right?"

Her words hit him like a fist to the stomach. "Dara," he choked, his voice strangled, "that is not…"

"Then again, I did volunteer, didn't I?" She narrowed her gaze at him. "Told you I'd do anything you needed me to, yeah? S'pose I've only myself to blame for what happened, don't I?"

"Dara…"

"Should probably thank you though—was terribly considerate of you to drop in when you did." She arched a brow, accusation writ all over her face. "Of course, I would've preferred you show up before he got his hands up my skirt, but a girl can't have everything. And besides, I was there as a distraction, wasn't I?"

She leaned closer to him, her eyes ablaze. "Guess you could say I did a bang up job, yeah?"

Every word cut him, tearing into his conscience and leaving him bleeding inside.

"Dara…I assure you that I never intended…never imagined..." he paused, hands balled into fists at his sides as he struggled to find words, needing desperately for her to know the truth but at an utter loss as to how to relay it. "I certainly had not planned to use you in such a fashion. I swear that I had not. I had not intended to wait that long. The window was locked and I…"

"Bollocks," Dara snapped. "I unlatched the window while Lilliman's toady was off fetching the tray of milk and cookies. Don't you even try to play that the window was…"

"There were two latches, Dara."

His words, so very gentle, snapped her mouth shut with an audible clack. She stared at him for a long moment, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fury. "What?"

"There was a latch at both the top and the bottom of the window. The bottom latch was undone. The top latch was still very much locked."

V wanted her to believe him very much. He could not abide the idea of her thinking that everything that had happened had been according to his design. But as he watched the color drain from her face and the fury turn to horror in her eyes, he wished he'd never said a word about the damned window.

"Oh…God…" Her voice was so different than it had been only moments before—so small, so crushed. "I didn't see the top latch," she choked out. "I never even thought to check for another latch."

He squeezed his eyes shut, hating the self-reproach he could hear in those words. If there was blame to be had for this, it was his—not hers. Never hers. "I should have broken it," he hissed, hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically. "I should never have left you alone with him for so long. It was nothing but a foolish miscalculation on my part."

"Did you know that they drugged the girls?"

The question was sharp, and he could detect a hint of desperation behind it. He had never been happier to claim ignorance in his life. "No," he said categorically. "I promise you, no. Had I known, you would have as well."

She nodded. "Of course," she murmured. "I knew you would never have done that. I did."

He frowned. She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself rather than him. "Did you really?"

Her head snapped up, the usual blue of her eyes dimmed nearly gray from the horrors of the day. A faint quiver began just along the corner of her mouth. "No," she confessed, her voice breaking on the word. "I didn't."

Had she run him through with her sword, she could not have hurt him more. "You truly think me capable of such a thing?"

"I don't know," she wailed, her control snapping. Tears filled her eyes and her breath began to come in great hitching sobs. "I don't know what I think! But I can't close my eyes without seeing him…feeling…" she wrapped her arms about herself protectively. "I need…" she choked on a sob, "I need to leave…I need air…"

V took a step forward. "I will…"

"No!" Dara backed away from him, her hands held up before her as if to ward him off. "No…I need to be alone…I just…I need to go…"

She bolted then—sidestepped him and sprinted out the main door of the Gallery.

*****

He despised the sound of clocks.

It was a realization made as he paced the length and breadth of the Gallery, waiting for Dara's return. Every second that ticked past sounded in his head like a klaxon and fell upon his nerves like a hammer.

Following her had been his initial instinct, and he'd flung on his cloak, hat and belt and started after her almost immediately. He'd assumed that she would use the first exit to the world above that she came to, but by the time he'd reached street level, she'd been nowhere in sight. He had spent nearly an hour trying to pick up her trail, cutting a sweeping circle around the entrance to the tunnels, hoping without much hope to catch a glimpse of her.

He had eventually given up, returning to the Gallery to wait for her instead.

He glanced up at the offending clock, lips tightening to a thin line behind the mask. That had been nearly four hours ago.

Possibilities and scenarios crowded his thoughts, planting images in his mind that set his stomach roiling. She could be hurt. She could be in need of help.

She could be dead.

That last thought was nearly more than he could bear, propelling him from his chair with a low growl. He hated this feeling—hated that he was so worried over the girl that it was making him sick; hated that he had ever allowed her into his life.

Damn her.

Damn her perception. Damn her smiles and her laughter and her obstinacy. Damn her compassion and her acceptance and her steadfast integrity.

Damn her, damn her, _damn _her.

The soft sound of the main door opening cracked through the silence like the report of a canon. His head snapped her direction and he gave his eyes leave to drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. He was across the room and at her side in the space between one heartbeat and the next, gloved hands reaching out to clasp her shoulders.

"You are well?"

It was such a small question, encompassing nothing of what he truly wanted to ask. But it was all he could manage. Seeing her had robbed him of the nervous energy that had kept him awake through the long hours of waiting, and he suddenly felt very tired.

Her own face was lined with exhaustion, her arms trembling beneath his touch. "I'm all right," she said, voice thin. A wry grin brightened her expression slightly. "Can't say the same for the Fingerman I ran into near Canary Wharf though. And I likely won't be able to move tomorrow; not working out over the past few months has really taken its toll."

"Never mind that now," V said quietly. "If you have no injuries that require tending, you should retire. You look done in."

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "That's 'coz I am." She glanced over at the clock, then back to him. "And you must be too. You didn't have to wait up for me, V."

He released her shoulders, stepping back and out of her way. "Yes, I did."

It looked as though she might say something—her lips parted, and he could nearly see the words upon her tongue—but she did not. Closing her mouth on a soft exhalation, she moved past him, disappearing down the hall that led to her room.

V stood in the silence for a long moment, staring after her.

He eventually retired to bed, so exhausted that he fell upon the mattress without bothering to undress, taking time only to shed the thick outer coat he wore. It would not be the first time that he slept fully clothed. He shuddered to think of the state his shirt would be in upon the morrow, he was too tired to care, and was asleep nearly as soon as his head touched the pillow.

He had not been long asleep when he was jerked full awake by the sound of his door slowly creaking open.

"V?"

Dara's voice carried through the darkness, trembling and a little desperate.

Pushing himself upright, he frowned. "Dara, my dear, is something the matter?"

"Yes…no…I…" there were tears in her voice, though he was unable to see the evidence of them on her face through the blackness. "I can't sleep."

He understood, and his heart broke for her. "Is it a distraction that you seek? A movie, perhaps? Whatever you need, my dear, you need only say the word."

"No," she backpedaled furiously, "you were asleep. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"You are not bothering me," he insisted. "Please, tell me what I can do to help."

"I was just wondering…" the desperation was thick in her voice now. "Thought I might...I mean...could I maybe...oh bloody hell! I'm _useless_ at this!"

"Anything you need, my dear. You need only ask."

"This is ridiculous!" She was crying in earnest now, frustration mingling with the pain.

"It is not ridiculous," V soothed. "What happened to you today was unthinkable. It is only natural that you are shaken by it."

"You don't understand…I'm jumping at _everything_!" He heard a thump and imagined that it was a fisted hand smacking the door. "Every shadow, every sound…even the silence is making me nervous! I'm so bloody tired, but I can't fall asleep 'coz every time I close my eyes, I see it all again—I feel his hands...and...and I just want…I just need…" her voice broke on a sob.

"What do you need, Dara? Please...tell me."

"It's too much to ask," she said in a tiny, hitching voice.

"There could be no request too great tonight."

She sucked in a breath—for courage, he guessed, and then wondered what she could possibly want that could require such agonies to ask for. He began to wonder if he should indeed be concerned.

"Can I...can I...stay with you tonight?"

Silence crashed down around them, so thick and so complete that it was a living presence in the room. Time seemed to stop entirely. Twenty years worth of instinct reared up inside of him, screaming for immediate refusal; screaming at him to escape—just screaming in general. It was impossible, completely and utterly impossible. She was already too close as it was; to invite her even closer was simply…

"Never mind, V," her rushed words cut through his rambling inner dialogue. "Please…forget I asked…it was stupid and silly and I should've known better. I'll be fine…really…don't worry about it. I'm sorry I woke you…" her nervous babbling died away as she flinched at the sudden illumination that had chased away the subterranean darkness.

V, his hand still upon the bedside lamp he had clicked on, stared at her across the length of the room. She was tragically beautiful in the dim light—long hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves; eyes shimmering with unshed tears, while the tracks of recent tears still clung to her cheeks—the mottled mark of Lilliman's hand was livid against the transparency of her skin. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers worrying at one another. But, despite all that, it was the slump of her shoulders that made the decision for him. He had never seen her look anything but utterly in control; happy, sad, joyous or angry, she always exuded a confidence that said she could take on the world single-handedly if necessary.

That self-assurance had abandoned her now, leaving behind only a trembling, wisp of a thing—a scared girl crying out for comfort that she did not know how to properly ask for.

Tonight, her own strength having fled, she needed someone else's. Tonight, she needed someone to keep the monsters at bay. And tonight, despite his better judgment, he knew that he was going to be that someone.

After everything she had done for him, how could he possibly deny her something so very simple?

"If I can stop one heart from breaking, if I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain," he slowly extended one hand toward her, inviting her with his open palm, "I shall not live in vain."

Her eyes widened. "V…really…you don't have to…"

"My dear, come and take what comfort you require. I am at your disposal tonight."

For a long moment, she stared at him, wide-eyed and clearly torn between the need for comfort and the embarrassment of having to ask for it.

His breath hitched when she finally took the first, tentative step forward—and he stopped breathing full stop when she eased herself onto the bed beside him, casting furtive glances at him from beneath her lashes every few seconds. Gauging his reaction, he guessed, waiting for him to change his mind.

Her hesitance gave him courage he would not have had otherwise, and, in a moment of what he would later look back on as insanity, he reached out with one arm to draw her near, tucking her into his side as he settled back against the pillows. She did not press too close, only settled her head upon his shoulder before releasing a deep, tremulous sigh.

"Thank you," she turned her face into the fabric of his shirt, one hand lifting to press a gentle squeeze to the gloved fingers that were wrapped about her shoulder. Her voice broke on the words, the tumult of her emotions again getting the better of her.

V only pulled her closer as the tears began to fall harder, her breath coming in hitching sobs—the sounds of her soft cries painful to hear. As a counterpoint to her weeping, he began to murmur soft snippets of poetry to her, attempting to soothe her with the same lines that had provided such solace to him over the long and lonely years of his life. The regular rhyme and rhythm of Shakespeare gave way to Scottish burr of Burns, which gave way to the lyrical brilliance of Keats, until finally he settled into the uneven but brilliant verse of Dickinson.

He had only just begun '_A bird came down the walk_' when the even regularity of her breathing informed him that she had fallen asleep. He kept reciting.

She shifted slightly, the top of her head nudging the cool metal of the mask. He dipped his head slightly in response, breathing in her scent…breathing her in period, but still quietly reciting. It was surprisingly easy to hold her thus—so natural, the way she fit into the curve of his embrace. Calm like he had never felt before settled over him; relaxing him, as he had never thought possible while within such close proximity to another.

And right then, at that exact moment, he had a surprising realization.

He was…happy.

All the turmoil of the past hours—of the past years—had quieted in his mind. Silence ruled now, where once there had been chaos.

And in that silence, there lived a truth that he could no longer ignore or deny.

It was hopeless. It was impossible. It was a mistake. And it was the last thing he had ever wanted. But it was the inescapable truth.

He was in love with this girl that rested so trustingly in his embrace.

Hopelessly, impossibly and entirely in love with her.

Turning his head down so that he could see as much of her face as possible in the dimness of the light, he lifted a gloved hand and traced one finger lightly across the bruise upon her cheek, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that he could simply will it away. Another poem sat at the ready on his tongue, one that he had never really appreciated, but now suddenly understood.

He ran his hand lightly—almost reverently—over her hair.

"Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

He woke alone the following morning, without even the faintest trace of warmth upon the sheets beside him to show that Dara had been there.

Had it not been for the lingering scent of lavender and vanilla on the sheets, he would have been tempted to dismiss the entire incident as a dream. And he was inordinately grateful for that olfactory proof—he'd had enough dreams in his life; he was ready for some reality.

The day that followed had been thankfully uneventful, if perhaps a bit quiet. She'd spent the majority of it cloistered in her room, while he had spent it pretending to read and trying desperately not to think too much about the whole thing. When she'd finally shown herself, sliding into her customary spot on the couch while he was watching the evening news report, she'd offered him a tentative smile, and then turned her full attention to the television, though her fidgeting told him plainly that she wasn't paying any more attention to it than he was.

In spite of his best efforts to the contrary, V could not help but wonder if she regretted coming to him for comfort. He fervently hoped that she didn't, but knew that he would never muster the courage to actually ask. This was uncharted territory for him, and he felt curiously adrift, having no idea if he should ask if she was feeling any better—would she welcome the inquiry or resent the reminder?

Intensely disliking the uncertainty that plagued him, he eventually decided to simply take his cue from Dara. He was not entirely convinced that it was the right way to go about it—she had, after all, been through a horrific ordeal. It was quite possible that she very much needed to talk about it in order to work through the inevitable emotional turmoil.

But while he may have suspected that the correct course would be to get her to open up, he knew for a fact that he was entirely the wrong person to attempt such an intervention. It would have been the height of hypocrisy to demand that she face her demons when he himself had spent twenty years ignoring his own.

So he kept his mouth shut and played the game her way. And her way appeared to be…pretend that nothing had happened at all.

And she was playing the game with particular skill. He could detect nothing unusual in her behavior. She was, after that first quiet day, the same Dara she had always been. Which either meant that she was an incomparable actress…or that she had already somehow come to terms with the incident.

The former was the more logical explanation, but it was far easier to simply go with the latter.

_Something _had changed though, and as she appeared unchanged, he eventually deduced that the difference he felt lay within himself rather than with her.

Laughter came more easily to him now and seemed to flow naturally between them. And while there had never been a dearth of it before, the difference, perhaps, lay in the quality of it.

Before that night, even at those moments when they had been most at their ease around one another, there had always remained a thread of tension within him that he had not known how to overcome. After that night, it was hard to remember that such a thread had even existed.

After a few days, he did finally note one change in Dara's behavior. It was a rather unimportant one in the grand scheme of things, but it was one that he could feel within himself as well.

There was no longer any awkwardness in the touch of a hand; such casual contact stopped being an event in and of itself, and became instead just another part of their daily routine. Where before, Dara would always approach any contact with caution—now, she hardly paid it any mind, dropping a hand on his arm in greeting or parting, nudging him playfully with a socked foot when he talked too much during a movie, swatting at him indignantly when he teased her.

It became almost as natural as breathing—for the both of them. V no longer tensed at her touch, no longer froze up at the very thought of it. Instead, he looked forward to the fleeting contact with an eagerness that he thought _must_ be telling. But if she noticed, she did not comment.

V felt curiously ambivalent about her silence—not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed by it. Her lack of notice could denote simple ignorance of the emotions which—to him, at least—seemed to flow from him so obviously. On the other hand, she might be perfectly well aware of his feelings, had no intention of returning them, and merely ignored that which she did not like to see. He found himself watching her, searching her face for any flicker of recognition, for even the smallest sign that he had betrayed himself to her by either word or deed.

It was maddening—his mind was constantly turning circles around itself as he fought his way through confusion and frustration alike. And for the first time in his life, he hated himself for thinking so bloody much.

Something else had come out of that night as well.

Dara had told him in no uncertain terms that she intended to begin patrolling the streets regularly, claiming that she'd been neglecting her duty. She'd mentioned her nocturnal wanderings as being a duty before, and he had never questioned her about it. This time though, he did, and received what he knew was a carefully edited and trimmed down version of the truth, though it did mark the first occasion upon which he became acquainted with the phrase 'the group'.

Despite her professed duty, his first instinct had been a categorical 'no'. But a well-timed reminder that she was a guest and not a hostage had stopped the refusal from ever passing his lips. A good thing too, he realized afterward—the expression on her face and the tone of her voice had said quite plainly that she would not entertain any arguments to the contrary. It was hopeless anyway, he knew. She was quite as obstinate as he was, and he knew how fruitless an argument would have been had the situation been reversed.

He would not stop his work for the asking—she would be no different.

Once she'd been satisfied that he was not going to fight her decision, she'd had a request for him. She had discovered, as she had briefly mentioned to him, that the months spent idle had been detrimental to her fighting skills. She needed to hone them once more to the razor sharpness they had existed at before her injury. Would he mind sparring with her to get her back into peak condition?

This time, he had not hesitated to bark out that categorical '_no'_. Even the idea of it sat ill with him; the image of his hands inflicting pain of any kind upon her made his stomach turn. She had been annoyed by his terse refusal, but had curbed her tongue, offering only an equally as curt, '_fine'_.

When she asked him again the next day, and again the day after that, each time with increasing determination, he began to suspect that it would be easier, in the end, if he simply gave in and did as she wished. He had a sinking feeling that he would eventually bow to her insistence anyway.

It was not that loving her had made him weak, though he had initially feared that it would. Giving in to her had nothing to do with weakness, and everything to do with preserving his sanity. He did, after all, have to live with the girl—and her constant wheedling, done in the most charming way imaginable with wide eyes and hopeful grins greeting him at every turn, was driving him absolutely mad.

In the end, he had held out against her campaign for nearly two weeks, and that out of nothing more than sheer wrong-headedness. But finally, after being called upon after her patrols to doctor far too many cuts and bruises for his taste, he capitulated.

And thus ended the chain of events that had lead to the current situation he found himself in—each of them slowly circling one another from opposing ends of sword and knife in the large chamber he had converted into his own private training room.

"Y'know, V," Dara quipped, her eyes intent upon his every move, "this'd be a lot more like sparring if you actually attacked me."

"This is _your_ idea, my dear," V shot back. "Thus it is for you to begin. I like this little enough as it is; I refuse to be the aggressor."

Dara stopped with a huff, one hand planted on her hip as she gave him a narrow eyed glare. "Why do you have to make everything so bleeding difficult? We're sparring, V, not fighting to the death—what're you so worried about?"

He had stopped as well, his arms dropping from their defensive position, fingers idly twirling the knives he held. "There are," he began slowly, "certain things about me that single me out amongst my fellow man."

Dara snorted out a laugh. "You don't say!"

He was not amused. "I was not finished."

She reigned in her smile, putting on a face of contrition. "Sorry...go on, then. I'll be good, I promise."

"You have seen me fight but in passing, my dear, else you would surely have noticed…"

"Your speed?" Dara smiled gently at him. "Already caught that, V. Your strength?" she paused, rubbing the back of her head wryly, "got that as well, my friend. You showed me both in the tunnels when I came back that first night."

He flinched at the memory, but did not allow the reference to bother him overmuch—she had not spoken accusingly, merely matter-of-factly. "Then why do you insist on this? I will be a bad partner for you, Dara—too afraid to hurt you to ever truly give you a challenge."

Dara frowned. "That's why you're being so stubborn about this? You're afraid you're gonna hurt me?"

"I would never forgive myself should I injure you. And I fear that there could be no other result of these sessions."

Her expression hardened, her back straightened and her chin came up. "That's one hell of an assumption you're making. I'm almost tempted to call it arrogant," she ground out.

V shrugged, shaking his head. "It is hardly arrogance to know that one is the stronger opponent. I am not impugning your abilities, my dear—I merely know my own well enough to draw a logical conclusion."

"Right then," Dara snapped, "not arrogant…just insulting. Let me ask you this—would it make a difference if I promise you won't hurt me?"

"I hardly see how you can make such a promise on my behalf, my dear."

"Well what if I was to tell you that there's things about me that single me out as well? You already know I'm quite handy with a sword...but what if I was to tell you that there's more to it than just that?"

"I would be utterly unsurprised, my dear. It has been long established between us that you have your secrets."

Dara nodded. "So I do. Though if I'd known we were gonna find ourselves in this situation, and that you'd be so stubborn about it, I would've told you the whole truth already. What if I told you that I'm stronger than I look, and faster than you'd think?"

"You will forgive me, Dara, if I find that difficult to believe. You hardly appeared particularly strong or fast in Jordan Tower. Not to be insulting, but one blow from that already incapacitated officer knocked you out cold."

"That was different," Dara huffed. "There were...extenuating circumstances."

"I see."

He didn't, not at all. And while she knew that was her fault for not having told him the whole truth, it still irritated her—though she rather suspected that she wouldn't have been quite so annoyed if he hadn't sounded quite so patronizing. "Fine," she snapped. "Guess I'll just have to do this the hard way then."

Beneath the mask, V's brow lifted. "The hard way?"

She struck without warning, her blade slicing through the air before he had even realized she'd moved. Instinct snapped his knives up, fencing her blade between his own crossed ones. "Dara?"

A wicked grin was her only response. Spinning away, she disentangled her sword, sweeping it low this time, nearly cutting him off at the knees. When he leapt to avoid the blow, the angle of her attack instantly changed, arcing upward and tangling her blade with the knife in his left hand—the knife that was quickly dispatched to the other side of the room with a practiced flick.

Stepping back, her grin as wide as Fawkes', she dropped into a defensive stance once again. "Has that done it, V? Or am I gonna have to disarm you completely before you get my point?"

V looked up at her, eyes searching behind the mask. "That was most impressive," he said, perfectly calm despite her display. "But I already knew how well you handle a sword. You did no more than catch me off guard."

Dara snorted. "Nice rationalization, that."

"Hardly a rationalization," V retorted. "I assure you that, had I the inclination to do so, I could quite easily have repelled your attack. You are, as I said, extremely good, but your speed is no match for my own, nor is your strength."

Anger instantly crackled to life in her eyes. "A long time ago, I had a lesson drilled into me about making assumptions," she snapped. "It's not quite the sort of highbrow fare you're used to…but I think you might learn to appreciate it."

With that, she shot forward, one hand clamping around the wrist that still held a knife, the other fisting in the thick black fabric of his jacket. A quick twist of one hand sent the knife to the mat and a jerk of an arm sent him flying sideways into the wall. Before he could regain his feet, she was perched over him, one of his own knives held to his throat. Leaning down toward him, she stared hard through the black-screened eyes of the mask. "Assumption, V, is the mother of all fuck ups."

Blinking up at her from beneath the mask, V took a long moment to process what had just happened. To say that he was surprised by the strength she had just displayed would have been an understatement.

"I think, my dear," he said after a moment, "that you have more than proved your point."

She moved away then, dropping his knife to the mat beside his head as she pushed back to her feet. "Good." She grimaced, rolling her shoulder to stretch it out. "You're heavier than you look, old man."

V had just regained his feet, and his chin rose in indignation at that. "I do not know what part of that statement is most offensive," he snapped as he adjusted his tunic with a sharp jerk of his wrist.

Dara turned away to hide a grin, walking across the room to retrieve her sword. "If I were you," she chirped, "I'd be more offended by the 'old man' crack. Weight can change…old is forever."

Now quite irritated, V bent down to collect the knife she had abandoned. "I fear you may be under a gross misapprehension regarding my age, my dear."

"No," she shook her head as she turned back toward him, "I don't think so." She cocked her head to the side, running her eyes over him appraisingly. "I'd say you're about 40 or so, yeah?"

The words he had been about to say died on his tongue. He did not know, of course, exactly how old he was, but he vaguely recalled being once labeled as twenty-one. A simple application of math, and he placed himself at 41—an age that he hardly considered old; an opinion that she apparently did not share.

His silence must have been telling, because she was grinning at him. "Thought so." She waggled her eyebrows at him. "You're quite fit for a man your age, my friend."

V did not know whether to be more concerned by the fact that she appeared to be taking great delight in calling him old, or the fact that she was—as far as his inexpert eye could tell—flirting with him. He decided to ignore both and focused instead on what, to him, was a much more pressing topic. "And you are quite fit for a woman of any age, my dear. I do not recall ever having been tossed about quite so handily before—and certainly never by a woman. Of course, I still cannot quite reconcile the ease with which that officer dispatched you with the strength I saw you display here today."

Dara dropped the point of her sword to the mat beneath her feet, leaning on the hilt slightly. "Like I said, extenuating circumstances. I didn't particularly want to hurt that officer and ended up taking it a bit too easy on him. And as for me being able to toss you about…I think it may just be time to tell you the truth. I mean, I already trust you with my life. There's not really any point in not trusting you with my secrets as well, is there?"

He'd always known she had secrets, and he had often pondered what she could possibly have to hide. And suddenly, faced with the opportunity of learning the whole truth, he found that the answers were not nearly as important as they had once been. _Who_ she was really no longer mattered to him—far more important was the fact that she simply _was_.

"Such things are for you to decide, my dear," he said at last. "Reveal your secrets if you wish, but know that nothing you could reveal shall affect my opinion of you." He grinned behind the mask. "And I feel it necessary to tell you that, despite your demonstrated strength and prowess, and even should you inform me that it was you and not David who felled Goliath, I will still be unwilling to pit my blades against yours."

She deflated before his eyes, expression turning sullen. "Well," she sniffed, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, "that wasn't quite the reaction I was expecting. Here I am ready and willing to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets, and you don't care enough to be bothered!"

"On the contrary, I am, as always, exceedingly interested in anything you have to say. If you wish to tell me, then I am eager to hear."

Dara blew out a sharp breath, turning her face away from him. "No…you've taken all the fun out of it now."

So petulant—her lips had pinched into quite the most entrancing moue he had ever yet earned from her. "Forgive me, my dear. I had not intended to spoil your fun."

"Well you have," she said, still in a huff and still refusing to look at him. "You've ruined it good and proper."

He had never seen her pout with quite so much enthusiasm before—and as with most everything about her, he found even that charming. "Come now, Dara, surely there must be something that I can do to remedy the situation? I do hate to see you displeased."

And just as quickly as it had appeared, the pout fell away, replaced with suspect quickness by an eager grin; a grin that had far too much triumph in its eager curve for V's peace of mind. "You could spar with me. That'd more than make up for you being so mean."

He had once thought himself gifted in the art of manipulation. He now recognized that his own skills were those of an amateur compared to this girl standing before him. She had backed him into a corner with an efficiency that he would have admired had it been employed against someone other than himself. As it was, he found it mildly disconcerting to have been so easily led.

Having no good denial handy, and well aware that even if he did, she would likely combat it with an equally as effective counter-argument, he decided that a compromise was in order. Walking across the room, he retrieved the daggers she had divested him of during her earlier demonstration, and returned them both to their proper places on the weapon rack tucked into a far corner of the room.

"I will make you a deal, my dear," he said as he turned back toward her, "one that I hope you shall find acceptable."

Dara, who had been watching his progression around the room in disappointment, assuming that he was going to deny her yet again, met the black eyes of the mask. The pout was firmly back in place. "Why do I get the feeling this deal's gonna work out better for you than for me?"

"Not at all," he assured, crossing the room once more. "I merely propose that we alter the substance of these sparring sessions that you seem so intent upon. You have no need of practice with your sword—a fact that you readily displayed only moments ago. Thus, I suggest that we forgo weapons in favor of hand-to-hand training. Then, you are getting the work out that you desire, and I will not have to worry too greatly about injuring you."

She was, at least, considering it; the small wrinkle between her eyes told him that. He could almost see the thoughts running through her mind—weighing, measuring and judging. It was an expression he knew as well as any she wore, having seen that very line appear a hundred times in the past, and always directed at him.

Weighing, measuring, judging—it seemed those were her favorite pastimes where he was concerned.

"You won't go easy on me?" There was a warning implicit in those words. "If I agree, you've gotta promise you'll actually give it your all. I won't accept anything less."

"I cannot, in good conscience, make any promises of the sort." V crossed his arms behind him, one hand clasping the opposite wrist, like a soldier at ease. "However, I can promise that I shall at least _attempt_ to fight to my fullest abilities, but that is all that I am willing to give my word to."

It was the best she was going to get from him, and she knew it. Walking across the room, she deposited her sword into an empty spot on the weapon rack, and then walked back to him, unzipping the gray track jacket she'd been wearing. "Deal…now let's get started, yeah?"

"You are going to fight in that?"

The question was out before V could stop it—embarrassingly rough and low-pitched. He prayed that she hadn't noticed.

Dara froze, frowning as she looked down at herself. "What's wrong with it? You think the pants are too baggy to fight in?"

In point of fact, there was nothing wrong with the pants. V had seen her in those particular gray sweats a hundred times. Rather, it was the top which gave him pause—little more than a scrap of black fabric which left her entire midsection bare, as well as her shoulders, arms and a significant portion of her chest. But was there really any way to say that to her? To explain that there would no longer be a question of him not giving his all to the fight because the smooth, white expanse of this newly revealed skin was going to defeat him better than her fists and feet ever could?

The answer—no, there was not. Apparently, these sparring sessions were going to end up being more than just drills for _her_ body; they were going to be exercises for _his_ self-control. But even still…he simply could not stop himself from making at least a token argument.

"That top, my dear. Is it not a trifle…inappropriate?"

"Inappropriate?" Her frown deepened, as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. When it dawned on her what he might possibly mean, she restrained a smile, and instead threw him a glare. "Thought you said you hardly noticed what I wear? That's what you told me, at least. And if that's the case, why's my top a problem?"

"It is not a problem," V rushed to correct. "I simply thought that another choice might be more appropriate. But then, I know nothing of what is fashionable for women these days, if I ever did. If you are comfortable and believe that you can perform to your fullest in that attire, then I have no further objections."

The grin that earned him was sharp and wicked. "Oh, I wouldn't go worrying about my performance if I was you, V," she retorted, voice low and meaningful. "In or out of these clothes, I can give you the fight of your life."

Dear God, she _was_ flirting with him, and quite shamelessly too. Drawing a deep breath, V shored up his resolve and nodded his head. "If you are ready to begin…?"

Feeling deliciously provocative, Dara raked her teeth over her lower lip. "I'm ready for anything and everything you've got, V." She dropped into a fighting stance, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, hands coming up in front of her. "So come on…give it me good."

V rolled his eyes heavenward, seeking strength from a higher power that he had long ago given up hope in. _God help me,_ he muttered to himself, _she shall be the death of me yet._


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Comb in hand and fresh from the shower, Dara padded barefoot into the main chamber of the Gallery. Their sparring session had gone surprisingly well—for her. She had assumed from the start that he would go exceptionally easy on her despite his assurances to the contrary, but she had still been surprised at how much he'd let her toss him about.

Of course, she was also fully aware that it was her own fault that his mind wasn't fully on the fight. As flattering as it was to think that she could have that sort of affect on him—or any man really—it was also counterproductive; which was why it would be sweats and t-shirts for every sparring session from then on.

Flopping down onto the couch beside him, she wrinkled her nose at the television. "You're not really watching Storm Saxon, are you?"

V gave an elegant shrug. "You needn't sound quite so appalled—it is mildly amusing, at least, which is a great deal more than can be said for the majority of the programming on the BTN."

Dara pulled a face as she began to comb out her still damp hair. "That's not saying much." Rolling her eyes at a particularly ridiculous line of dialogue, she turned and leant back against the arm of the couch, facing him. "Are you really interested in watching this? There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but it can wait til later. I don't wanna bother you."

"Something you could never do," V said, immediately reaching for the remote and pressing the mute button. He angled himself toward her, mirroring her posture. "What did you wish to discuss?"

Smiling at him, Dara pulled the comb through her hair one last time before reaching over to set it on the coffee table. "I wasn't kidding, you know. Earlier, when I told you that I'm ready to tell you everything…I was telling the truth, V. It really is long past time I did."

"And as I told you earlier, my dear, I am perfectly prepared to listen if that is your wish. But let me make it perfectly clear that you need only tell me as much or as little as you see fit—I expect no details from you, Dara. I already know _who_ you are—everything else means very little to me beside that."

"Well, it means something to me," she said.

"Then do please tell me," V prompted gently.

"Honestly, it's not nearly as interesting as I've probably made it seem with all the secrecy," she admitted as she adjusted, tucking her legs beneath her. "But I've had it drilled into my head from the time I was a kid to keep myself to myself. I've never actually told anyone outside of the group any of this before."

A nod was his only reply and Dara knew that his silence was indicative of his interest.

"First thing you need to know is that I had a brother once. His name was Edward and he was five years older than me," she paused, expression turning sad. "He was a student at St. Mary's."

She didn't need to explain what that meant. Not to him. V leaned forward, his heart in his throat. "I am…I am truly sorry, Dara."

She sniffed, and then gave a little shrug. "There's nothing for you to apologize for. It's hardly your fault, is it? And I wasn't looking for sympathy. You needed to know that to understand what came next."

V nodded, urging her on.

Dara sniffed again, wanting to get this part of the conversation over with as quickly as possible. "After Eddie died, my Mum and Dad…well, they were crushed at first. But that didn't last long. Before I knew it, they'd gone from mourning his loss, to wanting revenge for it. They blamed Norsefire for what had happened to him, and they started getting involved in all sorts of…illicit activities, if y'know what I mean."

"They became anti-Norsefire activists," V said quietly, fitting this new piece of the puzzle into the larger picture of the girl before him.

"They became a lot more than just that," Dara corrected. "Activists stood on street corners with signs or passed out pamphlets in Victoria Station. My Dad was a retired Royal Marine and Mum had been an operative for MI6 before it was disbanded—they really weren't the sign waving sort. They'd seen too many people getting pushed around by Sutler's goons, so they decided it was high time that someone started pushing back." Swallowing hard against a growing lump in her throat, she shifted her eyes to the cushion beneath her. "They got together with several like-minded friends and colleagues, got the word out, and started the group."

"A gentleman and lady after my own heart, I see." V shook his head. "If more people thought thus, this country would have freed itself from Norsefire long ago. Your parents were visionaries, Dara, true visionaries."

Dara pursed her lips, her expression grim. "Yeah...well, visionaries they may've been, but they weren't real good at keeping a low profile. They were black bagged when I was nine years old." She held up a hand, staying the words that had been on the tip of his tongue. "Please don't tell me you're sorry. Like I said earlier, I'm not looking for sympathy. But if I'm gonna tell you the story, I'm gonna tell you the whole thing and not just the easy bits."

V hated to hear the pain in her voice. "My dear, this is unnecessary. You needn't tell me…"

"You're wrong," Dara cut in sharply. "I do _need_ to tell you. More than that though, I _want _to tell you."

At that moment, he would have agreed to nearly anything if it meant erasing the pinched look of discomfort from her face. "Then I am all ears, my dear."

"Thank you." Dara leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, her legs still tucked beneath her. "Right…so, after my parents were killed, their best friends took over the group—and me as well. I've told you about Will and Liz, right?"

"A bit, yes—your surrogate parents, I believe."

"That's them, yeah." Dara smiled softly. "They raised me like I was their own. And they kept the group going, made sure that my Mum and Dad hadn't died for nothing. Only they were much better at it than my parents had been. Which is why the group is still going strong and they're not even a blip on Norsefire's radar. And that's all it's ever called, by the way—the group. Never did give it a proper name."

"How old were you when you became part of the group?" V couldn't help asking the question. "Knowing you as I do, my guess would be far too young."

"I was sixteen when I joined up," she said, then sighed. "Which, looking back, _was _far too young. But I was determined that nothing was gonna stop me from doing my duty, just as my parents had done theirs. Will wasn't happy about it at all, said I was too much like my Dad and that it was too dangerous. He was afraid I was gonna get myself killed."

"He thought you reckless."

"He did," Dara affirmed, grinning. "And he thought right. I _was_ dreadfully reckless back then."

"Back then?"

"Shut it, you." Dara shot him a glare. "I'm not dreadfully reckless anymore," she defended. "I'm only slightly reckless. That's a marked improvement."

"So it is," V chuckled. "Though I think slightly might, perhaps, be a bit of an understatement."

He was fully prepared for the pillow that sailed at his head. Plucking it out of the air, he tucked it behind his back. "Anyway, my dear…continue with your story."

Still glaring at him, though her eyes sparkled behind her narrowed lids, Dara fought down the urge to grin at him. "There's not much more to it really. I belong to a group that fights back. Some of us do it physically by going out and patrolling the streets at night. Some do it intellectually, trying to draw more and more people into the resistance. There's as many different ways of fighting back as there are people to do the fighting. And we've got quite a network put together—teachers, doctors, lawyers, artists," she paused, brow arching meaningfully, "former Olympic fencers, martial arts experts and even a former SIS colleague of my mum's who now works directly under Creedy."

He knew that she was expecting him to fall upon that last bit of information like a starving man on a loaf of bread, but he was hardly ignorant of his enemies' movements. And while he could obviously see the potential use of having a mole in such a prime position, he had his own ways of keeping track of what Creedy was doing and planning.

It was clear that—to her—her identity as a resistance fighter was the most important secret she had to share. To him, however, it was not only the least important…it was also the least interesting. In fact, he could not quite understand why it had needed to be a secret in the first place.

"Dara, my dear, I confess myself more than passing confused. It sounds as though the goals of your group coincide almost precisely with my own. Why ever did you feel the need to hide this from me?"

Sighing, Dara shook her head. "I couldn't help it. I told you that I'd had it drilled into me to keep my mouth shut, and I wasn't kidding. The first rule of the group is secrecy, and I wasn't about to go breaking it without discussing the situation with the others first. But now," she shrugged, "I trust you entirely now…and I that's just gonna have to be good enough. At the very least, Will and Liz would understand, and their opinions are the only ones I give a toss about when all's said and done."

"You may rest assured that your secret is safe with me, my dear," V intoned with mock gravity, placing a hand over his heart.

Dara snorted out a laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah…kind of knew that already, V."

"Yes, well," V straightened, "so long as we are on the subject of things already known, I feel I must confess something to you, Dara."

"What's that?"

Fawkes' pointed chin dipped slightly. "I fear that your great secret was, in actuality, neither great nor secret—in point of fact, I had long ago begun to suspect that you were part of a resistance group."

Frowning thoughtfully, Dara chewed her lower lip. "It was the fighting, wasn't it? I knew you'd be suspicious about that."

"Your fighting skills were, I admit, a very large clue. As was the entire incident in the cemetery the night we first met. However, it was the manner in which you referred to going above and patrolling for Fingermen as a 'duty' that I truly to put the pieces together."

Dara smiled wryly. "Suppose I might need to think a bit more before I speak from now on, yeah?"

"Very likely so," V agreed. He was silent for a long moment, then decided that, since they were having a frank conversation, he may as well ask the only remaining question he had for her. He cleared his throat pointedly, shifting against the cushions as he decided how best to broach the subject. "If I may, Dara...there is one further question I would ask of you. Indeed, you need not answer it, but I simply must ask about…"

His voice trailed off, and Dara tilted her head to the side, watching him with a question in her eyes.

"Ask about what, V?"

"Well, I did see…that is to say, I could not help but notice…" He broke off and lifted gloved fingers, gesturing vaguely toward the left side of her head.

"My ear," Dara interpreted, her own hand disappearing beneath the veil of her hair to rub self-consciously at the lobe of her ear. "You're wanna know what happened to my ear, yeah?"

He could sense her discomfort and hated himself for causing it. "Only if you do not mind telling me what happened."

"Oh, I don't mind. My brother happened, that's what." She unconsciously smoothed her hair down over the ear, a habit born of long experience. "Happened when I was four. My dad had a collection of old swords and daggers that my granddad had passed down to him. One day, Eddie and I were playing pirates. He got a bit overzealous with a particularly sharp cutlass, and voila…I'm stuck with this," she jabbed at her ear with one finger, "for the rest of my life."

Recognizing the harsh tone of her voice, V felt a new sort of camaraderie with her. He, of all people, knew exactly how she felt. "I shouldn't be too concerned about it if I were you, Dara. It is, after all, extraordinarily unique."

"Unique," Dara snorted, lowering her hand and dropping her eyes to the couch, "that's a nice way of putting it. Mostly people just call it freaky or gross—least, those are the one I've heard most often. But there's a whole long list of other names I've been called over the years because of it. A bloody nuisance is all it..."

Her words died the instant she felt cool, soft leather graze her cheek. Eyes jerking upwards, she sucked in a short breath of surprise at the sight of V's masked face hovering very close to her own. "What're you..."

Again, her words trailed off, lost the instant his hand slid backwards to tuck her hair behind the ear in question.

"Never be ashamed of what you are, Dara," V said fervently. "And ignore any fool who suggests that you should be. There is nothing wrong with your ear."

"You're not serious?" The disbelief was thick in her voice. "It's ugly, V."

"There is no exquisite beauty," V quoted, "without some strangeness in the proportions." He reached out once again, brushing what remained of the lobe of her ear with the tip of his finger. "I have never lied to you, and I will never lie to you—and I am telling you now, with the utmost sincerity, that there is nothing wrong with your ear, Dara. It is not odd or ugly. Indeed, how could it be, when it is part of you?"

She knew then how completely and utterly wrong she'd been over the past weeks. She wasn't _falling_ in love with him—she already _was_ in love with him, and it was surprising how entirely unsurprising that realization was.

Blinking against tears, Dara's eyes never strayed from his, hardly even noticing the fact that the eyes staring back at her were hidden beneath black screening. "You really do mean that, don't you?"

"Entirely."

Rolling up onto her knees, Dara brushed her lips across Fawkes' cool, metal cheek. "Thank you," she murmured, and then dropped back against the arm of the sofa once more.

For a few long moments, V was still. Then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he retreated back to his side of the couch, reaching for the remote. Tension radiated from him as it had not since the earliest days of their co-habitation. "As Storm Saxon is not to your taste, my dear, perhaps we might watch a film instead."

It was just about the most maladroit subject change she'd ever heard. But as she was in no mood to challenge him, she let the matter drop without comment. "Well, we didn't finish Casablanca last night. Why don't we watch the rest and then we can pick something else—unless you've got plans tonight."

V shook his head, pressing play, relaxing when she did not force the issue. "Only to enjoy the pleasure of your company, my dear. Anything else can wait for another night."

"And since you're being so sweet about it, I'll let you pick the next flick. I even promise not to complain if it's one I don't like."

The atmosphere of the room had returned to normal, and V smiled wickedly beneath the mask. "I am overcome with gratitude," he snarked.

"As you should be," Dara snarked right back. "It's hard being so selfless all the time."

"Saint Dara the put upon," V intoned with mock gravity. "Thou art the noblest and most munificent of women."

"And don't you forget it."

"After nearly six months of your constant companionship, my dear, you may rest assured that there is little danger of my forgetting anything about your charming self."

That got Dara's attention. Turning away from Rick and Ilsa's star-crossed romance, she pinned V with a look of surprise. "Has it really been almost six months?"

"It is nearly May, is it not?"

"Don't you know it's rude to answer a question with a question?"

V smirked beneath the mask. "It is also rude to speak while others are watching television," he drawled, eyeing her pointedly. "Or so I have been told."

Dara glared at him. "Not that you actually listen."

"Evidence to the contrary, my dear," he settled himself more comfortably against the cushions. "Had I not listened, however would I have been able to utilize your fishwifery to my advantage?"

"I am _not _a fishwife!"

"Oh? You prefer the term termagant, then? Or perhaps virago?"

Her comb bounced harmlessly off his mask, hitting him square in the cheek. He swung his head around sharply. "I beg your pardon!"

Grinning smugly, Dara crossed her arms over her chest. "That's Ms. Virago to you, you pillock."

"You threw your comb at my head."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Dara Turner!" V leaned toward her, brandishing her comb between them. "You threw your comb _at my head_!"

Dara's grin turned absolutely puckish. "Insult me again and just you wait and see what I throw it at next time."

V turned back to the television, tossing Dara's comb onto the coffee table. "Must you always resort to violence?"

"That's rich, coming from you," Dara shot back, then grinned at him. "Now do shut up, V. It's rude to talk while people are trying to watch a film…didn't you know that?"

V growled in annoyance, but said no more. He refused to rise to the bait that she had left dangling in his face. He turned back to the television, trying very hard to focus on the story unfolding on the screen and not on the woman watching him gleefully from the other end of the couch…and failing miserably.

After nearly a full minute of trying to ignore her, he turned his head and pinned her with a glare that lacked any true heat. "There are times, my dear, when I vehemently dislike you."

"Likewise."

"You're impossible."

"You're insufferable."

"Shrew."

"Wanker."

It continued on that way for some time, neither willing to let the other have the final word—and loving every minute of it. Indeed, they were enjoying themselves so wholeheartedly that, by the time Rick and Ilsa said their goodbyes, neither V nor Dara even remembered that the television was on.


	19. Chapter 19

******Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

The fifth of May was a day for celebration. It marked exactly six months since she had come to live in the Shadow Gallery…and they were both still alive to tell the tale. As far as Dara was concerned, that was more than enough reason to observe the occasion.

V also saw plenty to celebrate in the anniversary, which was why he didn't immediately cringe at her idea. In fact, far from arguing against the idea, he had even made suggestions as to what they could do to mark the date. His first plan, she'd shot down almost as soon as the idea had left his lips. Which, really, was as much as he'd expected. However, the unsuitability of his first suggestion left her far more open to his second—perhaps he could accompany her on her regular patrol?

It was actually something that he had wished to do for quite some time, but had never had the heart to ask of her. He monopolized enough of her life as it was, without butting in on the only time she had that was truly her own.

Apparently, he needn't have concerned himself. Dara had agreed to the suggestion with a whole-hearted enthusiasm that he'd found catching. It was a rare feeling for him, that eagerness. He'd quite liked it and had looked forward to May the Fifth with truly uncharacteristic impatience.

And here it was, May the Fifth, and he was still feeling impatience…though of an entirely different sort.

For nearly three hours, they had been scouring darkened allies and abandoned warehouses, dilapidated Estate buildings and shadowy cemeteries in the hopes of running across a few Fingermen to kill. But so far, the bastards had been annoyingly unaccommodating. They had not encountered a single night patrolman, and V's enthusiasm for the outing was waning.

And as time ticked on, he was taking less and less pains to conceal his frustration. Finally, after he had quite deliberately huffed out his annoyance four times in less than five minutes, Dara had glanced over at him. The look of amused indulgence she gave him set every nerve in his body on edge.

"Something bothering you, V?"

"I confess, my dear," he said as they continued to weave their way amongst the headstones of Abney Park Cemetery, "that this is hardly what I envisioned for the evening." He glanced around, even the mask managing to look unimpressed. "When you invited me to go hunting with you, I had imagined that it would entail a bit more…hunting."

Dara's expression turned to an all out grin as her eyes scanned the shadowed grounds around them. "Your memory must be getting dodgy in your old age, V," she taunted. "I said I wanted to celebrate six months without killing each other, true enough. But coming patrolling with me was _your _idea."

V grit his teeth and decided to ignore the shot at his age. "So it was. But only because you could think of nothing more momentous to mark the occasion,"

"Easier said than done," she shot back. "You weren't exactly full of suggestions either, if you'll remember!"

"If _you_ will remember, I did make another suggestion, which you summarily dismissed. And, might I add, without at all giving the notion its proper consideration."

Dara shook her head. "Yeah, 'cause nothing says _fun_ like blowing up a supply train."

V shrugged. "My storeroom could very much have used the restocking—and it would, at least, have provided for a more lively evening than aimlessly wandering about every unsavory corner of London."

Dara rolled her eyes. "Call me boring, V, but my idea of a lively evening generally doesn't include fertilizer bombs and detonators. Hunting Fingermen and protecting the innocent is more my speed—much more subtle and refined. It requires patience, concentration and caution."

"None of which are generally associated with liveliness, I believe," V pointed out, "and thus I rest my case—the supply train would have been much more fun."

Now it was Dara's turn to huff. "Well forgive me if what I do isn't as _exciting _as what you do," she stopped and tipped her head to the side, considering, "though I've gotta admit, a bit of your handiwork might just have its uses in my line of work. It'd certainly make taking down a whole patrol squad much quicker and easier." Her expression cleared again and an almost eager look came into her eyes. "Actually, that might be fun to try. Maybe we'll come across one tonight."

V chuckled. "Alas, my dear" he said with mock regret, "I have come unprepared for such a prospect. I fear that I have left my gelignite at home."

"Ah well," Dara kicked at a clump of grass with the toe of her boot, "I suppose that's probably for the best. It'd probably be a bit on the messy side anyway. But still…might be worth at least a demonstration, don't you think?"

The sound of a twig snapping behind them prevented any response V might have given and sent them both spinning around, weapons in hand and at the ready

"Well, well," a voice sounded from the darkness, preceding the appearance of a shadowy figure about ten feet off to their right. "Look what we've got here."

Relaxing instantly at the sound of that well-known and much-loved voice, Dara extended a hand toward V, wrapping her fingers around one tense, battle-ready arm. "Ease off," she whispered, "he's no threat."

"You are certain?"

"Absolutely," she replied, now unable to hold back her smile. Turning to the approaching figure, Dara took a few steps forward. "Don't you know its past curfew?"

"Fuck curfew," Will's unmistakable voice growled, "couldn't give a bloody toss about it. And don't you dare try and sidetrack me, Dara Turner. I'm righteously pissed at you and God help you now that I can tell you so."

Dara's grin widened. "Same old Will," she teased, "It's good to see that some things never change."

"Wish I could say the same about you, luv." He stopped in front of her. "But if I believe the cack they spew at us every night on the telly, you've turned into a regular bleeding Che Guevara—and not in a good way."

"Hardly," Dara denied. "More like Che Guevara's marginally helpful sidekick, though I hate to use the comparison. Not a big Che fan, myself." She tossed a smile over her shoulder at V—a smile that faltered when she saw how far back into the shadows he had retreated. Apparently, his comfort around her was no reflection upon his comfort around others. It did not really surprise her, but it did diminish her own enjoyment of the impromptu reunion. "What exactly are you doing all the way out here anyway? I certainly hope you weren't patrolling!"

"What if I was?" Will snipped.

She kept her voice quiet, not daring to shout as she truly wished to. It would not do for them to draw any unwanted attention. "Have you gone utterly insane? You could've gotten yourself killed!"

"Watch it, luv," Will snapped, though he had lowered his voice to match hers. "I've been doing this a bit longer than you have. I certainly don't need you…"

"What you don't need is to be out here risking your life!" Dara took a step toward him. "I know how much you hate hearing this, but you're too old to be playing this game. What would Liz and Rose do if anything happened to you? I thought we'd agreed a long time ago that you were gonna leave the patrolling to the younger generation."

"Yeah," Will said quietly, "we did. But then our best fighter up and disappeared, leaving a bunch of very young and very scared newbie's to pick up the slack—four of which subsequently decided to quit altogether, leaving even fewer very young and very scared newbie's with seven nights of patrolling to split between them. Someone had to step in and help out—and since we hadn't seen or heard from you in months, I decided it couldn't wait any longer and that it was time to take matters into my own hands."

As far as guilt trips went, it was probably the best he'd ever given her—and Will was an old pro at dishing them out. "Look…I'm sorry," she said. "I should've been back out here sooner. I know that. It was irresponsible of me to let things go for so long, and you've got every right to be angry at me for it. But you've gotta understand that I _couldn't_ contact you. It would've been too dangerous for all of us if I had—and I wasn't about to put you and Liz and Rose at risk."

"Fuck the risk!" Will was glaring at her now. "Last time we saw you, you told us you'd be gone a few days, and that was six months ago. Six months, Dara! Six months of worrying about you—where you were, what you were doing, if you were safe..."

"Well I was," Dara interrupted, "safe, that is. I've been perfectly safe."

"With him?"

Dara's expression hardened at his challenging tone. "Yeah. With him."

"Care to tell explain how you got mixed up with him in the first place? Blighter didn't force you into anything did he?"

Bristling at the accusation, Dara lifted her chin, glaring at Will down the length of her nose. "I wasn't forced into anything," she snapped, eyes flashing. "And the blighter's got a name—I'd appreciate it if you'd use it."

"Oh, so terribly sorry," Will spat, clearly not sorry at all. "What was I thinking, insulting your bomb-throwing boy toy like that?"

Despite the physical distance between them, she could feel V's growing discomfort as if it were her own. Glancing back at him, she could see the desperate longing for escape in the set of his shoulders; could read his discomfort in the angle of the mask.

She whipped back around as all of her protective instincts roared to life and shot Will a venomous look. "It's not at all like that, Will, and I'll thank you not to suggest that it is. And you know bloody well that I had to disappear like I did. It was wrong of me not to contact you, I admit…but I had good reason not to!"

"Of course you did," Will sneered. "You were too busy aiding and abetting a murdering terrorist. Couldn't have Norsefire taking you out before you could help this tosser blow up another building, could we now?"

"Are you even listening to yourself? You're criticizing him for doing _exactly _what we do!"

"Wrong," Will barked, pointing an accusatory finger in V's direction. "What he's doing is _nothing _like what we do! We fight Norsefire, and Norsefire alone. He takes hostages and sacrifices innocent lives. So don't you ever compare what we do to what he does, Dara Turner—got it?"

What guilt she had felt fled entirely at that, and resentful anger took its place. "The only reason I'm not walking away right now," she hissed, "is because I know that it's just your anger and worry talking. But even that's only gonna last for so much longer, Will—so how about you do us all a favor and calm down."

"Well how do you expect me to act?" Will said sharply. "You scared the hell out of me, Dara. And after everything that _he's_ been accused of, how am I supposed to know what to think of him?"

Dara snorted out a laugh. "You could try using a bit of that common sense you're so often going on about for starters. Of course Norsefire is doing anything they can to make him look bad. They're scared to death of him and what he stands for so they accuse him of anything and everything just to keep people off his side. We watch the news reports every night and it's sort of interesting how V seems to be responsible for every bad thing that happens in this country of late. The stories in the paper though—those are really the best. They're so much more creative and they always manage to give us a good laugh over breakfast."

Will shook his head. "Watching the evening news, having breakfast together…you planning a revolution or playing house?"

Dara frowned at him. "Would you just lay off already? I've told you I'm fine. You can see that I'm fine. I've apologized for not contacting you. I know that you understand why I did what I did, no matter how much of a prat you're being right now. What more is there for you to be so bloody angry about?"

"You want a list?"

"Forgive me for interrupting, but I find myself unable to keep silent any longer," V, voice cold and hard but surprisingly calm, moved forward to stand beside Dara. "Dara has been through a great deal these past months—far more than you could possibly know. It would behoove you to listen to her before casting judgment and heedlessly slinging about accusations as you are now. It has hardly been an easy time for her."

"Don't recall asking your opinion, mate."

"Neither do I recall Dara requesting yours."

Will took a menacing step toward V, eyes narrowed. "I've known the girl since she was in her cradle, you git. My wife and I have raised her since the days she was nothing but knees, elbows and shiny, metal braces. It's my goddamned _right_ to worry about her."

"I am not questioning your right to worry" V amended with the same cool poise as before. "Indeed, I should likely do the same were I in your situation. However, I can only assure you that there is no need for concern. She has been, and will continue to be, quite safe."

Will's lip curled disdainfully. "Because you're gonna protect her?"

"If the situation calls for it, most certainly. But it has been my experience that Dara can take care of herself quite efficiently without the aide of a protector." The mask tilted downward, his body language now almost challenging. "I am surprised that someone who has known her so well and for so long would fail to realize that."

"Watch it, Fawkesy—I know the girl better than you ever will."

"And yet you underestimate her at every turn—a funny sort of way to prove the intimacy and solidity of your relationship."

"What're you, a bleeding shrink?" Will shook his head. "Dara, luv, you've got fucking atrocious taste in friends."

"How interesting," V said in a tone of pure ice, "I was just thinking much the same thing."

Will tensed, one hand tightening into a fist at his side. "One more word and I'll knock that mask of yours twelve ways from Tuesday."

"Oh, I would very much like to see you try."

Rolling her eyes, Dara lurched forward, planting herself firmly between the two men. "Shut up the both of you! I don't wanna hear another word, all right? And while I appreciate what you're both trying to do, the pair of you are acting more than a little ridiculous. V…" she turned pleading eyes to him, "…why don't you go on home? I don't think I'm gonna get a civil word out of him as long as you're here."

Biting back the immediate refusal that sprung to his lips, V regarded Will critically over her shoulder. "I highly doubt that my presence alone could account for such vulgarity and rudeness as your…_friend_…has displayed tonight."

"You want vulgarity and rudeness, Fawkesy…how's this do you?" One hand shot up, index and middle fingers extended in the two fingered salute.

V tensed, but restrained the urge to knock the other man flat on his back. Satisfying as it might have been, he somehow doubted that Dara would appreciate it. "I confess myself unfamiliar with the proper response to such juvenile behavior. As you seem something of an expert on the subject, I wonder if you might advise me on how one of similar maturity would react to such a display?"

"Fuck you upside down and sideways, mate," Will spat.

"Charming, as expected." V nodded his head in Will's direction. "I shall remember that for future reference."

Dara rolled her eyes and took a step closer to V, placing her hand on his arm. "That's enough," she said firmly. "You're not helping things, V. I need to talk to him…I owe him that much at the very least. Please go home, V. Please…for me?"

For a long moment, he stared at her—it was a penetrating look that she could feel even though she could not see it. Then, without a word, he simply turned and disappeared into the shadows so completely that it was hard to believe that he'd ever been there at all.

Dara sighed deeply, staring after him. She had upset him, but there was nothing else that she could have done. Not when he and Will were spitting at one another like a pair of enraged tomcats. She turned back to Will. "Well, that was just lovely. Thanks ever so for making such a charming first impression."

"He's a prat!"

"You don't even know him!"

"Don't need to," Will grumbled. "I know enough about him to know that I don't bloody like him."

"You really did leave your adulthood at home this evening, didn't you?" Dara said disparagingly. "He was only defending me—and being a good deal more courteous about it than you were."

"Bleeding Christ," Will shot her a glare. "He's a bloody murderer, Dara; a goddamned terrorist!"

Dara snorted in disbelief. "And you're what—a saint? Remind me again—how many Fingermen have _you_ killed over the years?"

"Never claimed to be a saint, luv," Will retorted. "And you'll never once hear me deny all the kills I've made. But I did what I did for a reason. I had an actual purpose."

"You think he doesn't? You think he does it all for a bit of fun?" Dara stared at him, eyes wide with incredulity and jaw tensed with anger. "Well, you've thought wrong. He's got a purpose—and it's the same as ours. He wants Norsefire brought down, Will. He wants the people of this country to be free again."

"Oh yeah, he's all about the greater good, I'm sure."

Dara stiffened at the sarcasm in his voice. "For the most part, yeah…he is," she hissed. "But I won't lie and say that he hasn't got personal reasons for wanting to see Norsefire destroyed. He's suffered as much as anyone whose lives Norsefire's ruined over the last few decades. He's got the best of reasons for doing what he's doing, Will. I can promise you that."

"Bully for him, then," Will sneered. "Doesn't mean I've gotta like him."

"No, it doesn't," Dara agreed, "but I wish you would've at least given him a chance—for my sake, if nothing else. He's…" she paused, her expression turning just a little sad. "It would've meant a lot to me, Will."

He heard the words she didn't say as clearly as if she'd said them. Will closed his eyes, running a hand over his eyes tiredly. "Oh for fuck's sake…this just keeps getting better and better—ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome, Dara?"

"Stockholm…" Dara's anger, which had been waning, sparked back to life. "You absolute arse," she growled, "I do _not_ have Stockholm Syndrome. He didn't kidnap me and I am _not_ his sodding prisoner!"

"But you _are_ in love with him," Will interrupted.

Dara's stomach clenched—hearing the words spoken out loud, and by someone besides herself, was nearly the most terrifying thing she'd ever heard. Amazing that she could spend minutes with him and he could see it, when she had spent months with V and he didn't have the slightest clue. "He's important to me. I care about him."

"Oh fucking hell," Will muttered. "You've gone right on round the bend, haven't you? He's a bleeding nutter who blows up buildings for fun, Dara!"

Slamming one fist hard against her thigh and swiftly running through the last few shreds of her patience, Dara turned her face to the heavens. "How many times am I gonna have to say this? You don't know him! He's not crazy! He doesn't blow things up just for the hell of it! He's got reasons for everything he does. And if you keep refusing to listen to me, Will, I'm just gonna turn around and walk away."

"But…"

"You're being unreasonable, not to mention insulting. You're the one who pointed out to V that you've known me my entire life—I would've hoped that you'd have learned to trust my judgment a bit more than this."

"I do trust your judgment…"

"Then why're you acting like such an arse?"

Will let out a growl of frustration. "Because I'm bloody well worried _sick_ about you, all right? Every day I watch the news, praying to God that I don't see a report of you having been captured—every day I wait an worry and wonder if this is gonna be the day that I find out you've been black bagged. I _hate _this whole situation! And I _hate_ that bastard for getting you caught up in his mess!"

Dara's anger abandoned her entirely then, and tears welled up in her eyes at the rawness of his voice. She closed the distance between them and flung her arms around him, finding old, familiar comfort in the embrace he gave her in return.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry for worrying you. I never meant to get caught up in all this, Will—I promise I didn't. It just sort of happened, y'know? But now that I am involved, I can't tell you how glad I am about it. It's fate that brought me here, Will," she dropped her voice to a whisper. "It's fate that brought me to him. He's…he's amazing, Will. You don't even know. He's taught me so much. Don't know what I'd do without him. And he needs me too, leans on me as much as I lean on him. We're quite a pair, we are."

"So you do love him, then?"

"Yeah," she breathed, squeezing him just a little tighter. "I do."

"And him? He feel the same about you?"

Dara slowly pulled away, unshed tears clinging to her lashes. She shook her head. "No," she said sadly, and perhaps a little resignedly. "He's fond of me—I know that. He cares…but he doesn't love me. He's too focused on his plans to fall in love. He doesn't have the time or the energy for it."

"That doesn't sound very promising, sweetheart."

A shrug. "It's not," Dara admitted. "But it can't be helped, can it? He's not gonna give up his plans, any more than I'm gonna stop caring for him. And, it may not be much, but I've still got at least a little bit of hope, misguided though it may well be."

Will shook his head, wishing he could be more supportive but not at all inclined to be anything of the sort. "And that'll be enough, will it? A little bit of hope's gonna be enough to keep you happy?"

Dara turned to him wearing a watery smile, almost too thin to be called a smile at all. "Hope is the thing with feathers," she quoted, "that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all."

They were words that had haunted her for months now. The words that had given her hope where she'd never even dared to have it.

"Well thank you very much, Emily Dickinson," Will retorted, the full import of the quotation completely lost on him. "But that doesn't really answer my question, does it?"

"Sure it does," Dara corrected. "It answers it completely. You asked if hope was gonna be enough? Well, it has to be, doesn't it? It _has _to be…because it's all I've got. And it _is_ always there…always giving me the strength to keep trying. It's a part of me now, Will. It never stops—and I never want it to stop."


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty**

The first thing Dara heard when she walked into the Gallery was the distinct clang of metal on metal. Smiling to herself, she removed her coat and draped it over her arm. Coming around the corner, she was completely unsurprised to find V locked in combat with his favorite sparring partner—that poor, abused suit of armor.

Usually, she took great delight in catching him at play. But this time, the longer she stood there watching him, the more her smile began to fade. She could read the tension in his muscles; she recognized the anger that propelled each thrust and cut of the sword in his hand. This was not play she was watching, this was not sport.

He was absolutely furious about something.

After one particularly hard jab, Dara took another step into the room. That fact that he hadn't already noticed her presence was mildly disconcerting. It also spoke volumes about his state of mind-—he usually knew she was coming before she'd even entered the room. If he was distracted enough not to notice her entrance, it meant he was _beyond_ livid.

"V?"

He spun around at the sound of her voice, arm freezing in mid-swing. She could feel the force of his gaze the moment it fell upon her, potent and powerful even from behind the mask. He continued to stare for a long moment before finally dropping his arm to his side. "You are here."

It was said bleakly, without much emotion and Dara frowned, confused. "Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?"

"I am surprised that your…_friend_…permitted you to return."

Brow arching, Dara moved further into the room. "Permitted? You know me better than that. I make my own decisions." Her expression dropped to a frown. "Did you think I wouldn't come back?"

He turned away, circling around the suit of armor—putting distance between them. How to tell her, without saying too much, that he had feared that very thing? That he had seen the scenario play out with crystal clear precision in his mind—her surrogate father convincing her of how foolish it was to place her trust in him, to throw her lot in with such a man. From the moment she had dismissed him, he had been nearly certain that, if he did see her again, it would only be for as long as it took her to gather her things.

"I had suspected," he said at last, choosing his words with care, "that he might attempt to dissuade you from returning, yes. It seemed a logical outcome of our earlier exchange, and one that I could hardly blame him for—he is worried about you."

"And I'm worried about you," Dara retorted. "Taken any blunt objects to the skull lately? Because head trauma could be the only possible explanation I can think of for you ever believing that I'd let anyone tell me how to live my life. I'm with you, V, you know that. I think I've bloody well proven it enough over the past six months—and God knows I'll probably be proving it a thousand more times over the next six."

The mask dipped, cocking ever so slightly to the side. This angle—pure frustration. "Now you are angry with me."

"I'm not angry with you," she hastened to correct. "I'm angry that you'd actually think I'd walk away so easily, but I'm not angry with you. I know you well enough to know that you always expect the worst, because you just can't imagine anything else, impossible man that you are."

"I am impossible?" V squared his shoulders, the chin of the mask dipping down in the way that told her quite plainly that he was glaring at her from behind Fawkes' smile. "I hate to resort to the triteness of cliché, but there is an old saying, my dear, about pots and kettles which seems eminently suitable at this moment."

Dara crossed her arms over her chest, expression turning challenging. "You calling me impossible?"

"I am," V affirmed. "In fact, there are several other words that also spring to mind, and you can take your bloody pick of the lot—impossible, infuriating, vexatious, maddening…" he paused, frowning, wholly disconcerted by her reaction, "…laughing—you are laughing at me. What precisely do you find so amusing, may I ask? I fail to see any humor in the situation at all."

Fighting to curtail her giggles, Dara grinned up at him. "Oh, V," she breathed, shaking her head, "I'm sorry. It's just...I've never heard you sound quite so ordinary, before."

"Ordinary?" The mask tilted again, and her smile widened. There it was, plain to see, _her _angle. She'd confused him again. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Nothing really," Dara shrugged lightly, still smiling. "Just that, most of the time, you sound so bloody stuffy—nothing but perfectly proper prose and flawless diction. It's good to hear you talk like the rest of us for once."

V took both a literal and a figurative step backwards at that, fairly certain that he should be insulted. It was hard though to muster the will to be outraged when she was looking at him as she was, with that gentle fondness in her expression that he was beginning to think of as particularly his own. But he managed to work up enough outrage to put up at least a token argument. "You think me stuffy?"

Her smile shifted slightly, becoming a coy smirk. "Only a little," she said, "and not all the time. Most days I find it refreshing to hear Shakespeare's opinion on every subject."

That hurt a bit even though he knew she was only jesting, and V flinched. "If you find my conversation dull, if Shakespeare is not to your tastes, then do not hesitate to seek your entertainment elsewhere. The door is, as always, open to you—if my company is as tedious as you say, please feel free to see yourself out of it at any time."

Now it was Dara's turn to wince, all enjoyment she'd taken from teasing him gone in the face of his disagreeableness. "Oh, calm down…I was only joking."

"But I am not."

Her eyes widened. "You can't be serious?"

"Perfectly." He turned away from her, angry and petrified at the same time. The words had escaped before he'd fully had time to consider them. If she actually left…

"You bloody hypocrite," she snapped crossly, "five minutes ago you were in a snit because you thought I might not come back, and now here you are telling me to leave. You're sure you didn't hit your head on the way home tonight?"

"In point of fact," V said as he lifted his sword back to the ready, quite calm despite being sick with fear that she would indeed walk away, "I did not tell you to go. I merely said that if I am indeed as deadly dull as you implied, you should feel free to take your leave of me. The option is yours, of course, to do with as you see fit. But I am tired of this conversation, so leave entirely or simply leave the room—either way, I should prefer the peace of solitude at present."

"I…" Dara began, then stopped, blowing out a breath of pure frustration. "You're _impossible_!"

"So we have established." He struck out at the armor, hoping against hope that it was the door to her room that the wave of her anger carried her toward, and not the door to the world above.

"You drop your left shoulder when you lunge, you've no concept of proper blade position and your footwork is absolute shit, did y'know that?"

_That_ stopped him. The mask snapped toward her, his arm dropping to his side. "Excuse me?"

Marching over to him, Dara grabbed his elbow and turned him back toward the suit of armor, positioning herself behind him. "This's been nagging at me for months now," she said testily, "but I never brought it up because I didn't wanna offend you. But tonight I really couldn't care less if I do." She hooked one foot around his left ankle, jerking it backwards. "You're right handed, so your left leg goes behind, your right directly in front—your feet should never be parallel or shoulder width apart, even though it seems like it'd give you better balance."

"Dara…"

"Just shut up and listen," she snapped, kicking at his left boot. "Turn this foot out so that your right and left feet make a backwards L—yeah, just like that. Now, first rule of footwork…never cross your feet. It may look impressive and all, but you don't wanna trip over yourself in the middle of a fight, which's exactly what you'll end up doing if you're stepping back and forth across your center all the time."

"I do not…"

"Now, blade positioning…" she talked right over him, pretending he'd never spoken. She moved around to his front, pushing his left arm down against his side and lifting his right arm straight out. "Don't lock your joints—keep your elbow very slightly bent. Turn your arm," she grabbed the limb in question, turning it over so that his palm faced the ground, "there, just like that." She surveyed his grip, and then swatted his wrist. "Last I checked, the wrist was a joint, so don't lock it. You don't need to have a death grip on the blade—it should be held firmly but not too tight. Hold it too tight and your opponent will be able to disarm you too easily."

She stepped backwards a bit, surveying his form with a critical eye. "Lean forward a bit, put your weight on the ball of your right foot, but keep your heel flat on the floor. There, yeah…like that." She nodded as her eyes ran him up and down. "You look better already."

"I had not realized that I looked bad to begin with," he muttered darkly.

"You didn't," Dara said with a shrug. "In fact, you looked fantastic. And as long as you were either fighting someone who couldn't fight back or someone who had no idea how to handle a sword, you'd be considered an excellent swordsman. But if you fought me, the fight would be over very, very quickly. In fact, if you'd like, I'd be more than happy to show you just how quickly sometime—then I could really test your skills and fix any other flaws in your form."

Stepping out of the stance she had placed him in, V shook his head. "We made a bargain, Dara…no weapons. Regardless of your skill, I will not lift a blade against you."

"Fine," Dara snapped, "just trying to be helpful. You wanna be rubbish with the sword, be my bloody guest."

"I have in my collection several fencing manuals," V bit right back. "If ever I desire instruction on the handling of a sword, my dear, I shall peruse them. They will teach me what I need know."

An eye roll, followed by those lovely arms being crossed over her chest. "Yeah, because reading Agrippa will certainly teach you far more than studying it first hand with someone who's actually trained in it ever could, right?"

Another shrug. "It will suffice. Remember, if you will, my dear, that swords are _not_ my weapon of choice."

Closing her eyes, Dara shook her head. "I give up," she breathed, opening her eyes only to shoot him a glare. "I bloody well give up. I'm tired and you're being deliberately insufferable. Good night."

She was nearly to the door that led into the back hallway, the refuge of her room so close she could feel it, when she was stopped by the sound of her name. Half turning back toward him, she checked her temper, having no desire to argue with him any further. "What?"

"You…are staying then?"

The hopefulness of his tone mollified her irritation slightly and earned him a half-smile. "Yeah," she assured, "I'm staying."

"Good," he said, his voice pitched deep and low, and then he turned away abruptly. "There is much yet to be done, and I have already built your help into my plans. It should be extraordinarily inconvenient to recast them simply because you decided to leave."

A thousand different responses sprung to her lips—some angry, some wounded, some bitterly sarcastic. In the end, she went with the sarcasm; she was good at sarcasm. "Yeah, well, that _is_ what I'm here for, V. I just _live_ to make your life simpler."

"If that is the case," V retorted, "then I must say, you are doing a shoddy job of it. Perhaps a bit more effort is in order, my dear."

Dara gave a strangled growl, her irritation back en force. "You are absolutely…"

"Impossible, I know," V interrupted smoothly without even glancing at her. "You seem prodigiously fond of telling me so."

Another strangled growl. "_Bloody_ hell," she spat as she spun away. "Good _fucking_ night!"

V tsked, smiling beneath the mask. "Such language, my dear, is hardly becoming of a lady."

She had already disappeared down the hall, but her voice carried back to him, clear as a bell and as angry as he had ever heard it.

"_Fuck_ being a lady, _fuck _my language," her head popped back around the corner, blue eyes narrowed to slits as she glared at him, "but most of all, _fuck_ you."

Once she'd disappeared again, her door slamming shut behind her so hard that it made some of the pictures on the far wall shake, V finally allowed himself to laugh. True, he'd never seen her quite so angry with him before—but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Because no matter how furious she was, she was staying.

And really, that was all that mattered.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Due to a death in the family, this will likely be the last update until after Christmas. I hope to get more posted before New Years, but because of the nature of the loss, I can't guarantee anything. As a side note, if anyone who is reading this story has children, hug them extra close after reading this, because you never know when tragedy will strike. My nephew passed earlier today. He would have been two in January.**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

V woke the next morning feeling decidedly guilty. Dara had been correct when she accused him of deliberately goading her. And while it had been thoroughly amusing to discompose her the way she so often did him—though, he had to admit, she was much more colorful when angry than he—it had not been the most gentlemanly of roads to take.

Deciding that an act of contrition was in order, he rose and dressed quickly before hurrying to the kitchen. A special breakfast, requiring a bit more of his culinary skills than her usual egg and toast; coffee, of course; perhaps a movie of her choice immediately following breakfast; and then, later in the day, he thought he just might allow her to further the lesson she had begun the night before. She had seemed quite keen on playing the teacher—and truth be told, the idea of learning better swordplay intrigued him.

The pad of feet upon stone alerted him to her presence and he smiled, picturing her quite clearly in his mind—mussed hair pulled into a messy knot at the back of her head, eyes red-rimmed and sleep-blurred, night clothes wrinkled and rumpled from her customary tossing and turning. She would never believe it if he told her, but she was quite lovely in the morning.

"Good morning, my dear," he said warmly, though he did not turn around, the crepe in the pan requiring his full attention. "I do hope you slept well."

No answer. Not even the sound of her chair scraping across the floor as she pulled it out. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her dip the spoon he had laid out for her into her coffee, stirring it with one hand as she picked up the morning paper with the other.

"Dara?"

Still no answer.

She picked up her coffee mug after laying the spoon back down on the table, turned, and walked right back out the way she had come—leaving a confused and frowning V staring after her, completely dumbstruck. When he finally glanced back at the pan, the crepe within was turning black around the edges; he watched as the black crept farther toward the center—watched all of his good intentions quite literally go up in smoke.

Tossing the pan into the sink after dumping its contents into the garbage, he followed after her. Her door was open and he paused on the threshold, dropping a tentative knock upon the frame when she did not immediately look up. Even that did not draw her eyes from the paper; she merely leaned back further into the pillows she had stacked behind her and lifted the newspaper higher in front of her.

"Are you not hungry?"

The crinkle of the newspaper beneath her fingers was all the answer she offered. V's mouth narrowed to a hard line beneath the mask.

"Is this to be my punishment then? Am I to be ignored?"

Nothing.

"You do realize how very childish you are acting, do you not?"

Nothing.

"I had planned to apologize for my conduct last night, but such behavior as this is swiftly diminishing my will to do so."

A sip of coffee, the shuffle of newsprint. Then…nothing.

"If this is to be your attitude, I shall leave you to it."

Silence.

Why was he still standing there? Why hadn't he walked away? Her lack of response was doing nothing save infuriating him, rubbing his nerves raw in a way that no one but she could accomplish. This woman had far too great a power over him, and for the first time, he felt himself chafing beneath the weight of her influence.

Drawing himself to his full height, the chin of the mask lifting as he squared his shoulders, V's patience finally ran out. "Bugger this," he growled, turning sharply away from the door and stalking back to the Gallery's main room.

He tore his gloves off as he entered the kitchen and flung them violently onto the table. He had just begun to scrub the charred remains of her breakfast from the pan in the sink when he again heard the soft sounds of her feet on the stone floor. Bracing himself for further frustration, he kept his back toward her determinedly.

"Good morning!"

Her voice trilled across the room—light, airy, lovely, and positively maddening. His head jerked around toward her. "I thought you were not speaking to me?"

She gave him a wicked grin. "I wasn't. Now I am. I know your getting a bit long in the tooth, but you should really try to keep up."

He slammed the pan down into the sink, whirling around to face her. "You are infuriating!"

"And you're impossible." Dara's grin widened. "Consider us even."

"Must everything be a competition?" V shook his head, eyes hard behind the mask. "Imagine how pleasant this morning could have been, had you but swallowed your pride and accepted the apology that I had fully intended to give. At this very moment, you could have been enjoying good conversation over your breakfast rather than engaging in a fruitless attempt to gain a victory over me."

She didn't look nearly as smug any longer. "Wouldn't exactly call it fruitless—you did your damnedest to drive me absolutely mad last night. I think I was fully justified in getting a bit of my own back."

"An interesting contention, my dear, from the lips of one who has chided me often enough in the past about taking the high road—tell me, would it be churlish of me to call you a hypocrite as you have done so often to me?"

Pure indignation rolled off her in waves now, and the fire in her eyes ignited. "You can't honestly be comparing this to…"

"Admittedly," V interrupted smoothly, "my own offenses far outstrip yours in the grand scheme of things. But that is not the point. The point, Dara, is that hypocrisy, no matter its form, is still hypocrisy; and—moral dubiousness aside—your actions are equally as hypocritical as mine."

Dara, unable to counter his logic and not quite understanding why he was so angry in the first place, gave a helpless shrug. "Fine," she said, "we're both hypocrites then—neither of us any worse than the other. Bloody hell, V…I was just trying to have a bit of fun with you!"

"No," V disagreed, "you were ignoring me." The mask angled away from her, showing her Fawkes' sharp profile. His voice when he spoke again was low and rough, strained with emotion. "Mock me to your hearts' content, my dear—indeed, shout at me if you must—but do not ignore me. Your silence is far crueler than ever your words could be."

Unexpected and unwelcome, guilt began to crawl through Dara's veins. She crossed the room to his side with a pained frown on her face, thoroughly chastened. "V…," her hand reached for his, seeking the contact that had become both familiar and comfortable over the past months. When her fingers touched his though, she froze.

Absent was the cool, supple smoothness of well-worn leather that she had expected. Instead, there was only the warm roughness of fire-scarred skin beneath her fingers. His hands…_his_ _hands_...

"Oh…"

V had also frozen at her touch, his entire body going absolutely rigid. Her tiny exclamation jolted him into action and he tore both his hand and his body away from her, throwing himself across the room toward the table. "Forgive me," he mumbled, already shoving trembling fingers into one glove.

So fragile, this man she loved. A word, a look…a touch…could undo him entirely. It was so easy to forget that—he carried himself with such strength and assurance that it was all too simple to forget about the demons that plagued him. Too much pain sat upon those black-clad shoulders; too much suffering.

But there would be no retreat permitted this day. She would not let him run away from her any more.

Moving faster than him for once, she caught at the fingers still struggling with his glove. "Stop, V," she murmured, holding fast to his hand even as he once again tried to pull away.

"Dara…please…"

"No," she said, lifting her eyes to meet the blackness of Fawkes' gaze with perfect calm. "Stop fighting, V…let me..." Her voice trailed away as she dropped her eyes back to the hand she held.

Almost without conscious volition, her thumb began to trace sweeping caresses over his skin. She saw no reason to stop, so allowed it to continue as it would. Her gaze sketched over the patchwork of scars and ridges that marred his flesh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his other hand, half-gloved and still trembling, fall away to his side. Apparently, he had decided that it was superfluous to the current situation.

And that she simply could not allow. She dropped one of her own hands, yanking off the glove completely before bringing that hand up between them as well. Her other thumb was of the same mind as its twin, and was soon skating over the irregular surface of his skin.

Satisfied that neither hand was wanting for attention, she again raised her eyes to his. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. You're right—it was silly and childish. Forgive me?"

"Dara…" her name fell from his lips in a throaty whisper, "…you need not…how can you…?"

He was not talking about her apology—that much was immediately obvious. She gave him a soft wisp of a smile, loving him more at that moment than she ever had. So awed, he sounded…so utterly enthralled by nothing more than the merest touch of her hand to his.

"There are a lot of things I don't need to do," she murmured softly, "but _this_," she punctuated the word with a firm brush of her thumbs across his knuckles, "isn't one of them. As for how I can…"

She lifted his hands higher, bringing them level with her heart. "Why wouldn't I, is a better question. There's no shame in these hands, V. There's nothing wrong with them. These hands have saved my life…and these hands are gonna set an entire nation free." Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to first one, then the other before turning both over and bestowing each palm with the same mark of affection. "I'm almost as partial to these hands," she whispered, angling her eyes back to his once again, "as I am to the man they belong to."

For a long moment, V stood unmoving, staring down into her upturned face—unable to tear his gaze away from the lips that had just caressed his skin. He had felt that fleeting touch radiate through every atom of his body; had felt her words in every shadowed corner of his being. Both had poured across his senses as a cool balm, soothing wounds that he had thought could never be healed.

He had loved her before, but it was in the gentle curve of her mouth that he discovered what true devotion was—because he knew then, with the echo of her words in his ears and the lingering sensation of her lips upon his skin, that there was little he would not do for this woman.

There were no words to say that though. He had a greater purpose to fulfill than this, though it was difficult to remember why at that moment. Vengeance was further from his thoughts than it had ever been—and part of him was already rebelling against the change.

_She kisses your hands readily enough,_ the cold voice of reason hissed through his mind, _but what of the rest of you? You are a fool if you believe she could accept the face behind the grin with the same serenity. She would pity you then, but she would never—_could_ never—love you. You are losing your head over an impossibility. You jeopardize everything for the sake of something that can only ever be a dream._

Sighing deeply, V slowly pulled free of her grasp. Gathering up his gloves, heart-heavy and already mourning the loss of her touch, he turned away from he and put as much distance between them as the small kitchen would afford. Utilizing every spare shred of self-control that he possessed, he composed himself as best he could.

"You must be hungry, my dear. Tell me," he turned toward her, his movements all ease now, "what would you like? You have only to name it and it shall be yours for the asking."

The abrupt change in his attitude was jarring. This complete disregard for her words…this utter dismissal of the emotions she knew he _must_ have seen in her eyes, heard in her voice and felt in her touch was crushing. But there was a truth in his reaction that she could not ignore.

He knew her feelings...and he did not return them.

_Why are you surprised? Why's this bothering you? You knew this was gonna happen—you knew you were never gonna be anything but a friend to him. He's got his vengeance to worry about—beside that, you're nothing to him. He doesn't __want__ you...not like that. Not like you want him. You hear that, you silly girl? He doesn't…_

"…want you," she whispered, unconsciously giving voice to the words echoing through her head.

V cocked his head to the side, her words having been too low for even his ears to catch. "What was that, my dear?"

She jerked backwards a half-step, his voice snapping her back to the present and out of her thoughts. Blinking, she forced a smile to her lips. "Oh…nothing," she chirped, and then inwardly flinched—that had sounded too bright even to her own ears. Luckily, V didn't seem to notice. "Actually, I'm feeling a bit tired. Think I'll go lay down for a bit longer."

V nodded, almost too eagerly. Space…solitude…both boded marvelously well for his peace of mind. "Of course, my dear. Such drama as this morning has afforded can be quite trying."

Inwardly flaying herself for being an absolute fool, Dara started toward the door. It took every ounce of self-control she had to walk and not run from the room. "Yeah, really," she said as she slipped past him. "Just exhausting."

Once safely in her room, the door shut firmly behind her, she crawled onto the bed, propping herself against the pillows and clasping her arms about her legs. Dry eyed, she stared blindly into the darkness, disgusted with herself.

_Such drama as this morning has afforded can be quite trying…_

If that wasn't a clear repudiation of her feelings for him, she didn't know what was. And the worst part was, he was right. He'd called it drama…and it was. It really, really was. She'd plopped her heart in his hands with all the finesse of some stupid, lovesick teenager. Honestly…what the hell had she expected?

She was a fool. A complete and total bloody fool.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Two more months slid by—eight more weeks drifting past without so much as a hiccup to disturb their leisurely passing. There was no more drama, no more scenes…barely even any more arguing, save for the occasional dispute over the meaning of a song or the metaphorical significance of a scene in a film.

Obviously, such peace could not last—not with the Fifth drawing ever closer.

Dara waited with increasing impatience for the next task, for the next step in the progression which existed only within the confines of V's mind. The full scope of his plans remained a secret that he guarded even from her, allowing her glimpses only as the pieces were set into place.

Knowing him as she did though, she could tell that the next step was looming ever closer on the horizon. He had begun to grow more distant over the past several days, his mind preoccupied far too often for it to be mere coincidence. So, when one evening he stepped out of his room with hat and cloak in hand and full complement of knives gleaming at his waist, she was not at all surprised.

"Going out?"

"Indeed," he replied as he flung his cloak around his shoulders. "I have an errand to run."

Setting her book aside, Dara arched a brow at him as she scooted to the edge of the couch. "Business or personal?"

"Both, as it happens." V donned his hat, flipping one corner of his cape over his shoulder. "Forgive me for being vague, my dear, but I must be going. The situation is rather a time sensitive one, I'm afraid."

"I'll be quick then…just let me grab my coat." Dara was on her feet and half way to her room before V's voice stopped her.

"You are not coming with me."

Turning slowly back to him, Dara frowned. "What?"

"You heard me, Dara," V shook his head. "This is one task that I must complete alone. I have no need of your help tonight."

"Need or not," Dara retorted, "I'm going with you. I can be an extra set of eyes, if nothing else."

"No," V ground out. "You will stay here, and that is the end of it. There will be no discussion on this matter."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Dara gave him a level look. "Fine," she said tersely.

Without waiting for further comment, V turned and headed toward the door.

"If you won't bring me along, I'll just follow you instead. I was getting ready to patrol anyway."

That stopped him. And though he did not turn around, his head tilted up and she could read the frustration in the set of his shoulders. "Dara," he began, almost helplessly, "I beg of you…leave this be. I have good reason for wanting you to remain behind."

"And I've got equally good reason for wanting to go. Told you before, I worry. It'd make me feel a lot better to be there with you…to be able to help, if need be."

He made a sound of annoyance, back still toward her. "I do not foresee help being necessary."

"Yeah well, no one ever does, do they?" Dara stated with quiet and indisputable simplicity. "Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it, I say."

He did turn then, and she could feel his eyes raking over her—could literally feel his exasperation. "If I allow you to accompany me, you will do what I tell you. You will follow my instructions to the letter and not interfere where you are neither needed nor wanted."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Dara said quickly, not allowing him even a moment to reconsider. She disappeared into her room and was back out again in less than thirty seconds, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat as she crossed the room toward him.

She stopped at his side, tilting her face up to his. "I swear I'll do exactly what you tell me to," she assured, feeling his uncertainty. "I wouldn't do anything that would keep you from letting me help out next time, which is exactly what I know would happen if I broke my word on this."

He continued to study her upturned face for a long moment. Knowing that he would read nothing but absolute honesty in the candidness of her gaze, Dara stared right back at him confidently. With one last frustrated growl, he turned away and stalked out the door without even a backward glance.

Smiling and well satisfied with her small victory, Dara trailed along in his wake.

*

Whatever she had been expecting, the dark, nondescript brownstone they stopped in front of definitely was not it. Staring up at the facade as V expertly disabled the lock, she wondered exactly what purpose he had here.

He had been silent and uncommunicative on the journey—but not angry. She knew him well enough to recognize that. Instead, he had seemed anxious. So anxious, in fact, that she was tempted to call it scared, but found the very notion of calling V scared so foreign that she decided to stick with anxious instead.

She was fairly certain that his edginess stemmed not from what he was about to do, but from the fact that she was going to be there when he did it. When he had first emerged from his room, he had been as confident as ever, not nervous at all. But once she had forced her way into the equation—_then _he had become jittery.

A soft click, followed by a creak drew her attention and she lowered her eyes from their perusal of the house to see V already disappearing into the darkness beyond the door. Following him, she glanced around at the home that they had just broken into, and couldn't help wincing at the unfortunate décor of the sunken living room.

It was done up in a sad approximation of traditional English cottage style. The walls were a soft, sagey green and the accents were all buttery creams and muted pinks with touches of rust and ochre. In fact, the color pallet of the room was nearly perfect, but that was where the good adjectives ended.

The furnishings were made to look antique, though only a cursory glance made it perfectly clear that they were anything but. The pits and scars in the walnut finishes were a bit too regular and the paint on the tables a bit too perfectly cracked. The fabrics on the chairs and sofa were of the same ilk, obviously intended to look rich and merely managing to look cheap.

That room was trying so very hard to be something that it just simply wasn't. And while Dara knew that it was illegal to actually own any real antiques, she couldn't help but feel sorry for that room. It offended every aesthetic sensibility she'd developed after having lived for so long amongst the authentic treasures of the Gallery.

Luckily, she did not have long to despair of the décor. In fact, she had to break into a quick jog to catch up to V as he started up the stairs.

Three doors opened up off the first floor hallway, two of which were open. V walked right past them and stopped just outside the closed door at the far end of the hall. Hand resting lightly upon the knob, he turned sharply toward Dara. "Stay here."

She wasn't about to argue with that tone. That was a tone that brooked no arguments—it was hard and unyielding and very nearly the coldest she had ever heard from him. Nodding, she met his eyes. "Won't move an inch," she assured.

He disappeared through the door, closing it so swiftly behind him that it prevented her from seeing anything of what lay within the room beyond.

For a very long time, there was nothing but silence—thick, heavy silence that made Dara's uneasiness grow a little more by the minute. But then, the murmur of a voice caught her ear.

A voice that was definitely not V's.

A distinctly and undeniably _female_ voice.

It was ridiculous and it was petty, but Dara simply could not control the surge of jealousy that reached up from inside her to squeeze the air from her lungs. Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep breath.

"You're being ridiculous," she muttered to herself.

But her curiosity had been piqued, and she was powerless to resist its pull. Moving to the door, she pressed her ear to the faux-wood surface, eavesdropping on a conversation that she knew she shouldn't.

"_Oppenheimer was able to change more than the course of a war_," that female voice said, almost sadly. "_He changed the entire course of human history. Is it wrong to hold on to that kind of hope?_"

"_I've not come for what you hoped to do, Delia_." V—his voice a low, resonant rumble. "_I've come for what you did. I have a gift for you._"

Now Dara understood the purpose of this excursion. She had heard that line before, and knew exactly what it meant.

"_A Scarlet Carson_," the woman said, almost fondly. "_Your beautiful roses. I've thought of them often these past twenty years._" A pause. "_You're going to kill me now, aren't you?_"

There was no fear in her voice, only acceptance.

"_I_ _killed you ten minutes ago, while you slept_."

He sounded strange to her ears. There was none of the anger she would have expected, given the circumstances. Instead, he sounded almost...sad.

"_Will there be any pain?_"

A slight tremor of fear colored those words.

"_No_."

"_Thank you_." A pause. "_After so long...after everything…tell me…is it meaningless to apologize?_"

Even through the barrier of the door, without even needing to see or hear him, Dara could sense V's sharp intake of breath.

"_Never_." The word was rough with surprise, breathed from beneath a mountain of old pain.

"_I'm sorry_."

Silence again. And this time, the heaviness felt appropriate rather than unnerving.

After a few long minutes, the sound of a car door slamming shut broke the stillness of the night and caused Dara to start violently. She spun around and leaned over the banister to look out the front windows.

The sleek, black car parked in front of the house was quite obviously a government vehicle—which meant that the two men who were even then moving up the front walk were government agents of one sort or another. It also meant that she was about to break her promise.

"Fuck," she hissed, spinning back to the closed door behind her. She knocked lightly even as she let herself into the room. "V?"

"I told you to stay outside!"

Never even sparing a glance for the now dead woman in the bed, she gave her full attention to V. He was glaring at her from where he stood beside the bed, a small, red book clasped tight in his hand.

"Norsefire agents," she said quietly. "Could be cops…could be Finger. Couldn't tell. But there are two of them coming up the front walk."

The creak of the front door opening was loud as a gunshot through the complete silence of the house; both their heads snapped toward the door of the room at the sound of it.

"We must go immediately." V looked down at the book in his hands, turning it over, obviously thinking. Then, decision apparently made, he placed it on the nightstand. "We shall have to use the window."

He was across the room in two steps, flinging the window open wide.

Dara was only seconds behind him, slipping out under his arm onto the balcony. He exited behind her, sliding the window shut just as the door of the bedroom opened. They pressed to the edges of the building, hiding themselves from sight.

"What now?"

V craned his neck to look over the edge of the balustrade, measuring the distance to the ground with an experienced eye. Reaching out, he hauled Dara in against his side. "Hold on to me," he murmured against her ear.

"We're jumping?"

"We are."

Strictly speaking, she didn't need his help to make the jump. It was only about fifteen feet to the garden below, and she was nearly as agile as he was; her legs every bit as capable of withstanding the impact with the grass as his. But really, where was the fun in reminding him of that?

"All right then." She turned into him, sliding her arms around his neck and hauling her legs up to scissor around his waist. Cheek pressed tight against the cool metal of the mask, she set her lips near his ear, strands of the pageboy wig tickling her nose. "Ready when you are."

Reeling from this new and entirely unexpected position, V's arms instinctively twined around her, pressing her even closer. Later, he knew that this moment, the feel of her body wrapped so tightly around his, would haunt him—his senses were so filled with her that it was nearly staggering. "Right," he said, his voice barely strong enough to be called a whisper. "Do not let go."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she murmured, the low cadence of her voice—so near that he could feel the warmth of her breath in his ear—sending a shiver through him.

He leapt before any more distractions could present themselves, but not soon enough. Distracted despite himself, he missed the grass. They landed hard on the stone patio below and he instinctively braced Dara against the jolt, pressing her even tighter against him than he had been. For a long moment, they remained that way, locked around one another in what could easily have been called an embrace—and which, in fact, was within the privacy of their own respective thoughts.

Outwardly though, neither would have ever confessed to thinking anything of the sort.

Finally, Dara pulled her arms away, dropped her legs back to the ground and stepped away from him. Without a word, V grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the back gate that led to the alley behind the house. They slipped out the gate, still hand in hand, and ran toward the tunnels without ever looking back.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine. **

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"So much for not needing backup," Dara said once they were back within the sheltering confines of the Gallery. "Good thing I tagged along—they would've had you if it weren't for me."

"Do not be too proud of yourself, my dear. I would have heard them," V said, amused by her triumphant gloating. "And I would have escaped with far greater ease had I only myself to worry about."

"You weren't even paying attention," Dara argued. "You were messing about with that book. If it hadn't been for me, you'd've been caught red-handed."

"You really think that two men would have been enough to detain me? My dear, you underestimate me most appallingly."

"I'm not underestimating you, V…but I'm not underestimating the guns they were most likely carrying either." She walked toward her room as she spoke. "Especially since I'm pretty sure Norsefire's official policy toward you is 'shoot first, ask questions later'."

His lips twitched beneath the mask. "Guns do not frighten me."

She turned back toward him with a flounce. "Ooh, listen at you, then. Suppose you expect me to be all impressed by that," she snipped, hands on her hips. "Here's the thing though, V...you ever actually been shot?"

"Not as yet," V admitted.

"_That's_ why guns don't frighten you. Get shot so that you nearly bleed to death and tell me the same thing—_then_ I'll be impressed."

"While I freely admit that you have more first-hand experience of this particular subject than I do, I fear you are indulging in hyperbole. You were in no danger of bleeding to death."

Dara's expression hardened. "Yeah...wasn't talking about that time—was talking about the first time. And trust me, V...the first time..." she shook her head. "The first time was...worse."

"The first time?" He did not at all like the sound of that—did not like to think that he could have lost her before he had even known her. "You have been shot more than once?"

Her lips thinned, her face going a bit paler than normal. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I have."

"When? By who?"

The anger in his voice lured a hint of a smile back to her lips. "It was a long time ago now and things have been well sorted since then—so you can relax, V. Nothing to get all worked up over." She paused, sighed. "And as for the who...it was a Fingerman, of course. Caught me and another group member unawares." Her expression darkened. "Like I said though, he was sorted right enough. Got what was coming to him and then some."

There was old pain in her voice, and V could tell that there was a great deal more to the story than she was saying. "A horrific memory, I'm sure."

"One of the worst I've got," she affirmed, smiling wanly. "I was only sixteen then—and only just that. It could've been a lot worse, but I got off easy…I lived. The woman I was patrolling with wasn't so lucky." She swallowed hard—it had been more than ten years since that night, and talking about it still made her sick to her stomach. "All my life, I've never been more scared than I was that night. I'd never killed on my own before—not without backup. And there I was, a bullet in my side, my patrolling partner lying dead behind me, and a Fingerman with a .357 in front of me." Another pause, and then her chin came up, her expression hardening. "Still don't know quite how I managed it—but I got him. To this day it's the most satisfying kill I've ever made."

"Forgive me," V said roughly, regretting this turn in the conversation. "I did not intend to stir up painful memories. And I suppose I can concede that the guns might well have posed a problem, had they made it up the stairs without my knowing. You truly were a great help to me tonight, Dara."

Knowing perfectly well that his gratitude was offered as a balm for old wounds rather than because he actually believed she'd helped him, Dara was nonetheless grateful for the thanks. "I'm just glad you let me go with you, V. I'd have been worried sick if you'd made me stay behind."

"You are going to bed?"

She glanced back at him, having begun to move toward her room again. That he sounded almost hopeful would have cut her any other night, but she knew that he'd had a rough go of it that evening. This latest execution had taken more out of him than any other had, and as such, she was perfectly willing to allow him the solitude he clearly desired. In fact, it was a desire that she, for once, shared.

"Yeah…I'm a bit tired."

Her hand dropped to her side, surreptitiously drifting over the barely perceptible bulge in her coat pocket. Yeah…she had her own reasons for wanting a bit of privacy.

His relief was palpable as he dropped her a small bow. "Then sweet dreams, my dear."

"Same to you." She gave him one last smile before disappearing down the hall.

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. She slid her hand into the pocket of her coat, drawing out the little red book that V had placed on the dead woman's nightstand.

Feeling faintly guilty, she ran her fingers over the worn, leather surface. To read it or not to read it…that truly was the question…

It had been sheer instinct that had driven her to pocket the book in the first place. That little voice in her head telling her that he wouldn't have been so interested in it if it wasn't important had been impossible to ignore. The whispered suspicion that there was information well worth knowing hidden within that tiny book had been irresistible. And seduced by that little voice, she'd grabbed it while V's back was turned and tucked it out of sight before scrambling out onto the balcony.

In retrospect, she knew that she shouldn't have touched it; that she should have left it where it was. V had placed it there deliberately…and V did nothing without good reason.

But the deed had been done, and the little book was in her keeping now.

Tossing it onto the bed, she peeled off her jacket and quickly changed into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of old trackies. Climbing onto the bed, she leaned against the headboard and stared at the little book as she pulled on a pair of socks. Eventually, she leaned forward and plucked the book from where it lay in the center of the counterpane.

Still hesitant, she turned it over in her hands much the same way that V had done. Finally though, she opened it, eyes skimming over the inscription on the front page.

_Diary: Dr. Delia Stanton_

_Lead Researcher_

_Larkhill Project_

Insides twisting as she read those words over and over again, Dara blew out a nervous breath. Then, turning the page, she began to read…

_May 23__rd_

_It should begin soon now. I have settled in at the lab, acquainting myself with the equipment and the staff. All should prove more than adequate for the work I am to do. Prothero has hand picked my first batch of subjects—four dozen in all for this first round. They should be arriving tonight. Of course, none of them will be any use to me if I don't get to work soon. The restraints of bureaucracy grow more tiresome day by day. Still, I am very excited. This could be the dawn of a new age. Nuclear power will be meaningless in a world where a virus can kill an entire population and leave its wealth intact. _

_May 27__th_

_Commander Prothero toured the lab today with a priest—Father Lilliman—who I was told was here to monitor for rules and rights violations. It made me nervous…but afterward, the Commander assured me there would not be a problem, though I don't know how much I believe that. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see._

_June 2__nd_

_It has been nearly a week now since we were green lighted to begin. Subjects are, so far, reacting as expected to treatments. Morale grows lower by the day. I suppose I should not be surprised, but I am. I keep wondering—if these people knew how they might be helping their country…would they act any different? They are so weak and pathetic that I find myself hating them. They don't fight or struggle, just stare at you with empty eyes. Don't they understand what we're doing? Don't they understand what we could accomplish if this research works as I believe it shall? _

_August 18__th_

_Of the original four dozen, over 60% are now deceased. No controllable survivability patterns have emerged, which is both intriguing and frustrating. The first four Batches were completely ineffective—absolute dead ends. Batch 5 has been slightly more promising. Though we cannot honestly say that it has any common, discernible effects as yet, early signs are that it is proving more effective in the males. The females, however, show no increased resiliency. I'm hoping the survivors will provide more answers._

_September 2__nd_

_Only five left now. Two males and three females, which tends to contradict my entry on 8/18. The male in room 5 is a particularly fascinating case. He is physically unremarkable. No cellular anomalies, nothing out of the norm. Batch five however seems to have triggered a sort of psychotic break. I am uncertain whether the psychosis is directly attributable to the tests or merely a byproduct __of the situation as a whole._

_I will say though, he has this way of looking through you that is simply…chilling. Lilliman won't go near him—claims that the devil himself has taken up residence in room 5. I see him cross himself whenever he passes the door, which amuses me greatly. But despite the wrongness about him, there's something about 5 that intrigues me._

_September 8__th_

_A few weeks ago, Prothero finally allowed 5 to make a go at the gardening project, and the results have been astounding. He is quite surprisingly proficient at it, not to mention that it seems to calm him in ways that nothing else has. Prothero was understandably reluctant at first to allow an inmate access to the tool and chemical supplies, but with a bit of perseverance, I finally got him to agree to the plan. Now the bastard is delighted. The crop has almost doubled._

_5 also grows roses. Beautiful, deep red roses. _

_September 18__th_

_5 continues to give me hope. He exhibits none of the immune system pathologies that the other subjects developed. However, I have discovered several anomalies in his most recent blood samples that I have been unable to categorize, though they appear to be unforeseen mutations. I cannot explain how such a thing could have occurred. Early tests proved that 5 was genetically unremarkable. It is a puzzling development, though of minor importance beside the success we have had with his resistance to the test strains. _

_The mutations themselves have presented as a demonstrative abnormality in basic kinesthesia and reflexes—5 is not only far stronger than he should be, he displays amazing dexterity and speed. All of which has made Prothero even more ill at ease around him._

_Also worth mentioning is the further advancement of the apparent psychosis. 5 now claims that he no longer remembers who he was or where he came from. We still have no concrete evidence that our work is the cause of the psychosis, but whether it is or not hardly seems to matter in the greater scheme of things._

_And besides, who he was is no longer important. What is important is what he is now—he is the key to a dream, and the hope that all of this will not have been in vain._

_September 25__th_

_We have done it! After only four months and one batch of test subjects, we have developed the virus that will secure the safety and security of our country for generations to come. I was entirely right about 5 being the key—his blood provided the last critical components needed to bring the whole thing together, and without which we never would have been able to complete the necessary genetic code. So much more to be done though—Prothero wants us to begin work on a vaccine now, in case of any mishaps. Likely a good idea. I have the feeling that 5 will again be necessary to the work and will begin new battery of tests tomorrow._

_November 7__th_

_I was there when it happened. It started around midnight. The first explosions tore open the entire medical section and filled the rest of the complex with thick, black smoke. We lost nearly half the staff to the inferno. It was utterly horrific. I was one of the lucky few who made it out through the rear door. There was screaming everywhere. Everywhere. I think I hate the sound of screaming._

_In the center of the camp, everything was on fire. People were running in all directions. We had hardly enough time to get our bearings when the second wave of explosions tore through the complex._

_All my work, gone! I was standing there, in something approaching shock, trying to understand how it could have happened, when I saw him. It was 5. And at that moment, I knew. It was my fault, all of it. Prothero had been so very right all those weeks ago. The chemical supplies-the ammonia, the fertilizers…he had turned them into explosives._

_He had the flames behind him, which threw his face into shadow. But I knew that he was looking at me. He was looking right at me. I could feel the blame in that look…the accusation._

_Dear God…the way he looked at me._

_December 23__rd_

_It has a name now—the virus that I worked so hard to create. I never got the opportunity to name it with everything that happened. _

_They're calling it St. Mary's, and it is spreading like wildfire throughout the length and breadth of England. _

_My God...what have I done?_

_They lied to me. And I was too blind and too stupid to see...they used me and they used my research...and now, thousands upon thousands of my own people are either dead or dying. Prothero knew. He had to have known. He had known what they planned to do with it, which is why he was so adamant that we produce a vaccine I wonder how long it will take them to release it—how many more will die before the death toll is deemed sufficient to their purpose? _

_How am I supposed to live with myself now? How am I ever supposed to reconcile the fact that it is my work that is murdering my Countrymen? Sometimes, I think I would like to die. A pity that 5's explosions didn't take me that day, because then I never would have had to know._

She should never have touched the diary, but she couldn't regret that she had.

She knew now…she understood…

Dara's stomach turned.

She thought she might be sick.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Dara stared at the small, red diary, her expression hovering somewhere between rage and grief. All of her questions had been answered. All of her suspicions had been confirmed. And as horrific as she had supposed his past to be, the reality of it was far worse than anything her imagination could have ever conjured.

She closed her eyes, pinching wearily at the bridge of her nose. So much of him was clear to her now; things that she had only guessed at had been drawn out before her eyes in full, gory detail. The images danced behind her eyes, making her feel ill.

The worst of it was that he blamed himself. He blamed himself for every single one of the hundred thousand lives that had been lost to St. Mary's and he blamed himself for being the instrument through which Norsefire had gained control of England. She had no concrete proof to base that supposition on, but knowing his penchant for self-flagellation…well, it didn't exactly require a stretch of the imagination.

But it was so ridiculous. So utterly, utterly ridiculous!

It twisted her heart, made her absolutely _ache_ for him. It also made her viciously, furiously angry. So angry, in fact, that it nearly choked her. V had been far too kind to Delia Stanton—she would not have granted the good doctor such clemency. The woman had dealt death to forty-eight people without even the slightest hesitation and she had very nearly done the same to V. She should have died screaming for mercy, not peacefully and painlessly in the warm comfort of her bed.

Doctor Delia Stanton had deserved neither his compassion nor his forgiveness, yet he had given her both. It was a travesty!

Lilliman and Prothero had received much more appropriate punishments, though still not quite satisfying enough, given what she now knew of them. Their deaths had certainly not been as tranquil as the good Doctor's, but they had died far too quickly for her tastes. If only she had known then what she did now…

She stopped mid-thought, reason finally beginning to burn through the fog of her anger.

_If I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't have done anything different than I did. They all died the way V wanted them to—and if he's satisfied, then who the hell am I to question it? After all, I wasn't the one they tortured._

That thought led subsequently to others of its kind, and her anger swiftly gave way to pride. What other man could have survived as he had? She had thought him strong before, but now—there were no words to describe the sort of strength that lived in him, no words with which she could ever express how truly astounding he was.

She had begun to think that she knew the full capacity of her heart for love—that she had reached the apex of emotion that her insides could contain. She could not have been more wrong.

Her heart swelled, expanding until she could feel it beating in her throat, her hands…everywhere. There was no man in the world like V, and there would never be another man for her besides him. He had spoilt her entirely for anyone else.

The desire to see him, to hear his voice and to feel his presence suddenly became so overwhelming that her feet were on the floor before she had even consciously decided to seek him out. The journal she tucked beneath her pillow, hiding it safely out of sight before she started for the door.

Once there, she paused, leaning her forehead against the doorframe and trying to calm herself. It would not do for him know that anything had upset her her. It was not the time to tell him that she had taken the journal and read it from cover to cover. That would only make him angry, and she didn't want to fight with him—not tonight. Eventually, she would tell him…but not now…

Taking one more deep breath, she pulled the door open, padding down the cold, stone hallway and out into the main room. The lights were out, the only illumination the flickering of the television. V was nowhere to be seen and she frowned, eyes jumping about the Gallery in search of him.

The soft shuffle of fabric drew her attention back to the couch, and she smiled at the sight of a single, black-clad leg draped casually over the arm, one booted foot bobbing in time with the music emanating from the television. He was lying down, sprawled out and fully at his ease, which was a rare thing indeed for her masked man.

"...a man must live like honey bee…and gather…all he can…"

Her smile widened to a full on grin. He was watching _The King & I_—hardly the viewing fare she would have expected him to seek out after the events of the day. But then again, V was nothing if not unpredictable; and he did seem to have a secret inclination toward romantic films, embarrassed though he was to admit it.

She had discovered that particular personality quirk when she came across a copy of _Titanic_ stashed at the very bottom of a pile of DVD's. She'd held it up, smirking, only to have it snatched away with a gruff comment about the historical poignancy of the plot.

Utter rubbish, of course, but she hadn't pressed the issue. Instead, she'd suggested that they watch it. Her intent had been to corner him into displaying his sensitive side, but all she'd ended up proving was that, no matter how soft his spot for drama might be, hers was softer. It had been a long time since she'd seen the film, and she'd forgotten just how sad it actually was. By the time the credits rolled across the screen, she'd been sobbing like a baby.

To his credit, V had been a true gentleman about it and refrained from taunting her as she most certainly would have done had the situation been reversed. He merely passed her a handkerchief and proposed that they follow such heavy fare with a something of a lighter, more amusing bent.

She'd sensed the real smile beneath the eternal one though. He had been perfectly well aware of the turnaround, and had fully enjoyed it, whether he would admit it or not.

Impossible man.

Feeling suddenly playful, inspired by both the movie and by V's own penchant for playacting, Dara began to craft a plan in her head. Specifically designed with nothing more than the spirit of fun in mind, it would also help to sweep away the horrors she had found between the pages of that little red journal.

She stood silently, watching, waiting for the precise moment when she would jump in and steal the scene.

"…and suddenly…a pair of shoes…a face…it speaks..."

And there was her cue…

"We've just been introduced…I do not know you well..." She sang the words along with Deborah Kerr, her own voice a clear—if untrained—mezzo-soprano that was far outstripped by the dubbed vocals coming from the screen, but still pleasant enough on the ear.

V shot upright, his head appearing over the top of the couch. She grinned even wider at the sight of him—he was wearing her angle again; confusion tilting his head just so. Taking a few steps toward him, she added a small twirl as the next line began.

"…but when the music started something drew me to your side…"

"Dara?"

"…so many men and girls…are in each others arms…"

"What _are_ you doing?"

Ignoring him, she settled both her hands on the back of the sofa, leaning down toward him. "…it made me think…we might be…" She waggled her eyebrows at him. "…similarly occupied…"

Twirling away across the room, she threw her arms out wide. "Shall we dance?" She looked back at V, her eyes seeking his—he still had not moved an inch, but she knew his gaze followed her every movement, could feel the weight of his stare upon her. He was smiling behind the mask…she could feel that too. "…on a bright cloud of music…shall we fly? Shall we dance? Shall we then say goodnight and mean goodbye?"

Pulling her arms in, she pressed her palms over her heart. "Or perchance…when the last little stars have left the sky…shall we still be together…with our arms around each other and shall you be my new…romance…on the clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen…shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?"

She began to move then, allowing an invisible partner to waltz her around the room, occasionally tossing grins over her shoulder at V.

His eyes were riveted, drinking in even the tiniest detail of her. She moved with such lissome perfection that he felt as if he was watching living, breathing poetry spin about the room. He had never seen her quite so carefree before—her eyes wide and bright, her expression open and inviting. She had never been more beautiful to him than she was at that very moment.

"V?" Her voice lilted across the room, stretching his name out into the most glorious sound he had ever heard. "D'you dance?"

His breath caught in his throat as the memory of her body wound tightly about his only hours earlier swam through his thoughts. To dance with her, to hold her close…such was the stuff his dreams were made of. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about that, of course. He was supposed to be keeping her at arms length and focusing on the culmination of twenty years of painstaking planning.

But at that moment, with that soft smile curving her lips and that sweet, open look of invitation in her eyes…he wanted nothing more than to tell her that yes, he most certainly _did _dance.

Unfortunately, that simply was not the case.

He shook his head, disappointed but unwilling to lie. "I am afraid that I do not. Having had no partner to lead, it seemed a rather pointless skill to cultivate."

"Pity, that," Dara said, twirling his direction. She stopped at the back of the sofa, swooping one arm down to grab up his hand, tugging at it insistently. "Still…easy enough to fix. Up with you."

"Dara, I do not mean to spoil your fun, but I would rather not…"

One small hand lifted to press a single finger to the mouth of the mask—not technically silencing him, but he nonetheless respected the gesture for what it was intended to be, and stopped talking. "Don't argue. Just humor me, yeah?"

"But…"

"No," she insisted, her hand dropping from the mask to join its twin in pulling him to his feet. "No buts. I wanna dance and as partners are a bit thin on the ground at the moment, you're just gonna have to do."

Testament to the quality of their friendship, rather than take offense at her good-natured barb, he merely rolled his eyes behind the mask. In spite of himself, he rose and allowed her to pull him around to the open space behind the sofa. "Put that way, my dear, how could I possibly say no?"

"You couldn't," she stepped in close to him, placing one of his hands on her waist, and one of hers on his shoulder, "coz I won't let you." He had gone absolutely rigid the second she touched him, but she grabbed up his free hand in hers anyway. "Now don't tense up on me, yeah? We're just practicing, V…nothing to work yourself into a state over. Just think of me as a slightly more agile version of your metal friend over there."

"I think I should prefer to dance with him," V snipped, sparing a single glance for the poor, oft-abused suit of armor that had spent so many years as his sparring partner. "Agile or not, he is at least pleasant."

Her grin never faltered. "Stop grumbling and start dancing. The song'll be over before we've even gotten started at this rate."

"The song could last all night and it would not make a bit of difference. I have told you that I do not know how to dance."

"The King didn't know how to dance either," Dara pointed out, "but Anna taught him quick enough, didn't she?"

"My dear, I am reasonably certain that was not Yul Brynner's first dance lesson."

Dara shrugged. "Who cares about Yul Brynner? We were talking about the King of Siam."

"Dara," V leaned back, attempting to pull away from her, "I am not amused."

Holding fast to him, she shot him a glare. "Only because you're being difficult—relax and you'll have fun, I promise."

"How can I relax?" He did manage to pull away from her then, his sudden anger surprising her into taking a step back. "You are strong-arming me into something that I have no wish to do," he continued, punctuating the words with a sharp slash of one gloved hand through the air, "and which I know can only end with your disappointment at my ineptitude and my humiliation at looking like a clumsy oaf."

"Bloody hell, V," Dara snapped back at him, goaded despite herself. "Don't you ever get tired of being so pessimistic all the time? I'm not asking you to be Fred Astaire…I just wanted to have a bit of fun is all! Would it make you feel better if I promised to keep my expectations abysmally low?"

"The level of your expectations is immaterial," V insisted. "The problem stems from the fact that you have any to begin with."

"Funny...I think the real problem is that you don't have any at all." Dara turned on her heel, walking away from him and around the sofa. "You don't _expect_ anything good to ever happen to you. You don't _expect_ anything to ever work out in your favor." She stopped beside the coffee table, reaching down and scooping up the remote control. "And you know what, V…all that negativity is starting to get a bit old." She turned toward the television, mashing the back button with slightly more force than necessary and jumping back to the beginning of the scene.

"If that is the case, then do feel free to leave at any time."

"Oh shut it," Dara snipped, dropping the remote back onto the table. "You always say that, and I never do, so why keep saying it?"

"Why keep reminding me how unhappy you are here?"

She was back in front of him again, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Don't put words in my mouth. I never said I was unhappy."

"Forgive me, my dear, but it is the only logical conclusion I can draw from your words."

Narrowing her eyes at him, Dara shook her head. "You're absolutely impossible, you know that don't you?"

V's head tilted slightly, and she knew he was glaring right back. "And you are absolutely infuriating." He paused, and then shook his head, blowing out a puff of frustration. "Will you not just go back to bed, Dara? It has been a trying day and arguing with you is only making it worse."

"No, I will not just go back to bed," Dara glanced over at the screen, noting that the song was about to start again. "And if you don't feel like arguing with me, then don't." She angled her head down, tossing him a beguiling smile as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes coyly. "Dance with me instead."

A long-suffering sigh escaped from behind the mask, and his shoulders dropped. "You will not give up until you have gotten your way, will you?"

"Never have, never will. So you may as well stop fighting and just give in," she batted her lashes at him. "Come on, V…you know you can't resist me."

He almost laughed aloud at that, wondering if she could possibly know just how right she was. "One dance," he said at length, his voice hard. "One time through the scene. That is all I shall afford."

Grinning, she slid toward him, framing her arms into the appropriate position. "All right," she agreed. "I can live with that…especially if you turn out to be as awful at it as you say you are. My toes might not be able to take more than one dance."

Moving forward as well, V placed his left hand upon her waist tentatively, clasping her right hand within his own. "If I trod on your toes you have no one to blame for it but yourself. This is, after all, entirely your idea."

The song had started, the opening bars sung out once more. They stood still, waiting for the main body of the song to begin. Nervousness mounting, V took furtive glances at the screen, praying that his memory served him as well here as it did elsewhere. He could imagine nothing more embarrassing than tripping all over her and ending up in an undignified heap on the floor.

When they began moving, turning a much slower circle around the room than the characters on screen, Dara smiled up at him encouragingly. "So far so good. You're doing fantastic, V."

"You are being overgenerous—we have barely even begun. Now stop talking…" he grinned behind the mask, "else you shall throw me off count."

That last had been said in a much different tone, almost light enough to be teasing. Dara dipped her head deferentially, playing along. "Oh, do forgive me, Your Majesty."

As the song wore on, he grew more and more confident, their pace increasing with each turn. In fact, Dara was quietly impressed with how quickly he took to it—impressed but not particularly surprised; he had the natural grace of a jungle cat when fighting, why should dancing be any different?

When the song finally ended, he brought their dance to a close with an unexpected but utterly delightful flourish, spinning her out away from him and then pulling her back in. Thrilled and a bit out of breath, Dara grinned up at him. "Don't know what you were so worried about, V—you're a natural."

He laughed, and it took what breath she had away entirely. She had heard him laugh before—a small chuckle here, an even smaller snigger there—but this was different. This was full-bellied and lighthearted, an honest laugh of pure enjoyment. She thought perhaps it might be the most wonderful sound in the entire world, and wondered what it would take to illicit a laugh like that every day.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, happiness giving the words more resonance than normal. "Though I do believe that the majority of the credit must go to you—no man could step wrong with so charming a partner."

Dara preened at the compliment. "Flattery, sir, will get you everywhere."

Again, that laugh. "I shall keep that in mind, my dear, the next time you argue with me."

"Should've thought that through a little better before I opened my trap, yeah? What I _meant_ to say was—flattery, sir, will get you everywhere _except _out of an argument."

V sighed. "How cruel, Dara, to dangle such promise before me and then snatch it away so quickly."

"Yeah, well, can't be giving you any unfair advantages. You might actually start winning arguments every now and again, and that wouldn't be much fun, now would it?"

"That, my dear, is entirely a matter of perspective."

Dara grinned. "Don't get all tetchy about it. I mean really, is there anyone you'd rather lose an argument to than me?"

"I would rather not argue at all."

"Aww...you don't mean that! It'd be a real pity to waste God given talents like ours. You and me, V...we're top notch arguers. Can bicker with the best of them, we can."

"Truly a talent to be proud of," V drawled. Angling his face away from her, he gestured toward the television. "Now, are you planning to prattle on indefinitely, or may I return to my film?"

Narrowing her eyes at him in a mock glare, Dara reached out and swatted at his arm. "Oi! That was downright rude."

"While you, of course, are the soul of courtesy, I'm sure."

He was already moving back to the sofa, obviously intent on resettling himself. Did he truly wish to be left alone? She really had no desire to go to bed, the truths she'd found in that little red book still far too fresh. Sleep, if it came, was not going to be pleasant—not with the horror of his past so clear in her mind. Their dance had helped to divert her thoughts, but the pictures painted by those terrible words were already starting to reassert themselves to the forefront of her mind. But neither did she want to intrude if he truly did want a bit of solitude.

Deciding that it was at least worth asking, she moved around to the side of the couch.

"Mind if I sit with you? Turns out I'm not as tired as I thought I was."

"Need you even ask?" V gestured toward the other end of the couch. "You know that you are always welcome, my dear."

She smiled down at him as she moved around to the vacant side of the sofa, dropping into her spot in the corner. "Well, just thought I'd do things the right way for once," she said with a grin. "Figured if you could dance, I could have a go at being polite."

They settled in to watch the movie after that, both falling silent as they tuned their attention and their eyes to the television.

V, though, was finding it difficult to keep his mind on the film. There was something that she wasn't telling him, he was quite certain of that. He could read her with relative ease, and the tone of her voice, the nervous flutter of her lashes and the unconscious wringing of her fingers told him quite clearly that she was hiding something. Disinclined to argue with her anymore though, he decided to keep quiet.

She would tell him, in time. If the problem was great enough, she would tell him.

Until then, he would simply have to content himself with allowing her the time and space she needed to get to the point where she could share her troubles with him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**A/N: **Apologies for the delay…but being the mommy of a toddler with a nasty cold is not particularly conducive to productivity on the writing front!

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Dara was asleep.

More importantly, Dara was asleep _on his shoulder._

And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Everything had started out normal enough. They had finished watching _The King & I_ and Dara had almost immediately declared that she still was not tired and suggested that they watch another film. He had agreed, she made a selection and they had settled in to watch _My Fair Lady_.

Typical. Ordinary. Routine, even…

…and then the moment came that Dara scooted across the couch to point out an interesting bit of trivia from the disc insert...and never scooted back. She had, instead, settled herself into the spot beside him with her legs curled up beside her and her head tipped back against the cushions.

He'd been momentarily startled, but had quickly decided that he quite liked her near and so hadn't said a word. In fact, he soon found that he rather more than simply liked this new seating arrangement, because, within minutes, she'd been fast asleep. And Dara Turner, lovely as she was awake, was absolutely exquisite in sleep.

Taking full advantage of the opportunity afforded him, V had allowed himself the indulgence of observing her at her most unguarded. He traced the curve of her cheek with his eyes, admiring the striking contrast of her dark lashes against the paleness of her skin. He admired the almost wistful droop of her mouth and smiled at each tiny sigh and whimper that fell past her lips.

And when her dreams took an unpleasant turn and her sleep turned fitful, it had taken every shred of self-control that he possessed not to reach out and smooth away the frown lines that creased her forehead. A devious little voice in his mind whispered that she was a deep sleeper…that he could touch her brow, her cheek, her nose…and she would never know…

While he was raging this internal battle…it had happened.

She gasped, horrified at whatever was going on behind her closed eyes, and her entire body tensed. The next moment, she let out a tiny cry of despair and her hand shot out, fingers extended as if she was reaching for something. V had been frozen, uncertain what to do and in that moment of hesitation that her questing fingers found his hand where it lay between them…and seized hold of him with all her might.

He had jumped at the unexpected contact, but she had seemed comforted by it, almost as if he had been what she was looking for. Her breath released in a contented sigh and her body relaxed, shifting unconsciously until he had quite suddenly found himself with her head on his shoulder and her hair spilling over his arm and into his lap.

That had been nearly ten minutes past, and he was still as paralyzed with helpless confusion as he had been the instant her head had settled upon him. He honestly did not know whether he should ease her over onto her end of the sofa or let her continue to slumber away on his shoulder. He knew which option _he _preferred, but was fairly certain that her own choice would be quite the opposite. His fingers had ideas of their own and positively itched with the desire to touch her, but he could not allow him the luxury. She could very easily take offense at being touched in anyway while unconscious, and rightly so.

Of course, as tactile as she was and as generous as she tended to be with her own touch, she might take no offense at all. She might offer him that infinitely sweet smile and dismiss the situation with a reminder that they were friends. And that's what friends did, wasn't it?

And oh…he was truly moving onto dangerous ground if he was actually trying to convince himself of _that_.

She shifted again, and he tensed, expecting her to move away—dreading the loss of her sweet weight. But she did not retreat. She turned even further into him, tucking her head firmly beneath his chin, her cheek pressed against his neck. The hand not holding his slid across her body and onto his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers and sending his thoughts reeling.

He sucked in a deep breath, his heart beating a frantic cadence in his chest. Against his better judgment and every very good argument to the contrary, he could not stop his free hand from reaching toward her; was powerless to stop himself from skimming his fingers along her cheek and tucking an errant strand of raven hair behind her ear.

Her reaction to that gentle caress nearly undid him.

The low hum vibrated up from deep in her throat, sounding so much like a purr that he could not give it any other name. His fingers, independent of his will, repeated the caress. Again, she _purred_ and turned her face into his touch.

V's world narrowed until she was suddenly the only thing in it. The sound of the television, the Gallery itself—everything faded away until there was only her. His mind was in chaos, the certainty that he should pull away battling against a wave of what he could only describe as hunger. He had loved her for months…but this…

He had never craved anything so much as he did that low moan of pleasure or the arch of her neck as she pushed into his touch. It was intoxicating and maddening and more compelling than he could ever have imagined.

Before he could sink too far into the pleasure of the moment, the cold voice of reason reared up within his mind, angry and cutting; forcing him to ask the one question that he most dreaded the answer to.

_Who is she dreaming of? Who's is the hand—the face—she sees while she turns into your touch? Who is the man coaxing that heavenly sound from her lips?_

He had never been one to indulge in envy—his belief in the inevitability of fate rendered such an emotion moot. One had what they were meant to have; to covet anything more was a pointless and futile waste of energy. But oh…how he envied that man, her dream lover. He envied him so much that it was almost a physical pain in his gut.

Unconsciously, his fingers fanned out across her cheek, sliding back into her hair and then down, settling just over the pulse point in her neck. He drew his thumb tenderly across her cheekbone, then slid it down to brush an even more delicate caress across the bow of her mouth.

"Mmmmm," she hummed again, that glorious vibration reverberating through every part of his body. "Love you…"

He closed his eyes behind the mask at that and the envy swelled up inside of him until he could feel nothing else. To be the man receiving those words…to be the man to return those words…to be _hers_…

She sighed in her sleep and the fingers curled into his thigh flexed as she turned her face further into him. "V…"

Eyes flying open, V stared straight ahead, unable to credit what his ears had heard. It was not possible…it simply could not be possible...

Another gasp tore through him and he very nearly leapt from the couch at the first press of her lips to his fabric-covered neck. Warmth spread through him, shockwaves tingling through every nerve in his body. After a long moment, every tremor, every drop of feeling he possessed, converged into a wave of desire so thick that it nearly choked him. His eyes fell closed once more and he blew out a ragged, shuddering breath. His hand pressed farther back into her hair, fingers dragging much harder across her skin. "Dara..."

Her body went stiff in his arms, and his eyes flew open behind the mask, cursing himself for his lack of control. Her head lifted not a second later, and he suddenly found himself staring into shockingly blue eyes; eyes that were wide as saucers and shadowed with absolute horror. "Oh...my...god..." she whispered, jerking away from him and throwing herself back against the opposite arm of the sofa. "Oh...god..."

He nearly doubled over from the pain that lanced through him, the dread in her voice like a knife to his heart. How could he have been so foolish to think…to believe...

"God, V..." her voice was muffled now, and he knew without looking that her face was hidden behind her hands. "I didn't mean to...I'm so sorry...please...forgive me..."

"No," he forced the word out, his voice thin. "There is nothing to forgive, Dara. I should have woken you sooner...I should not have taken advantage..."

"...I was dreaming...I didn't realize..."

"...it was unforgivable of me..."

"...should've though...should've known it wasn't just a dream this time..."

"...to touch you without your permission..."

"...that it felt too real...never felt that real before..."

Finally, her words permeated the panic and shame that were currently sitting like a boulder on his chest. _This time...before_...she simply could not mean what it sounded so very much like she meant. The mask jerked around toward her, but the rest of V's body froze. "Dara...what...?"

Slowly, her heart beating in her throat, her breath shallow and her stomach tied in so many knots that she despaired of it ever setting to rights again, Dara turned toward him. Meeting the blank blackness of Fawkes' eyes, she cursed the mask as never before—she would have given anything at that moment to be able to see _his_ eyes. "Don't tell me you're surprised." Her voice was raw, its timbre far lower than normal. "Don't tell me you don't know...after everything that's happened...you've got to know..."

"Know...?"

Tears prickled the backs of her eyes at the honest confusion in his voice, her own stupidity looming large before her. Know? How would he know? She knew him well enough to realize that it would never even occur to him that she could care for him as anything more than a friend. He would never believe that she...

"I love you."

The words were out before she could stop them. Far from the passionate declaration she had so often envisaged, they sounded sadly weak to her ears and more than a little desperate. Swallowing against the lump of fear in her throat, she lifted her chin; he was going to know just how deep her feelings for him ran, even if he didn't want to. "I'm in love with you, V—have been for a long time now."

For a long moment, the only sound in the entire Gallery was the murmur of the television. Then, V's head dropped, his entire body folding in on itself as he braced his head in his hands. He was trembling, every muscle rigid with tension. "You love me."

The words were low, less than a whisper, but she heard them. Wanting to reach out to him, but unsure if her touch would be welcome, Dara clasped her hands together in her lap. "Yeah, I do," she said, calmly and with a simplicity that was unquestionable, "very much."

The trembling intensified and his hands tightened, gloved fingers digging into the sides of his head.

_She loves me...dear God...she loves me_.

He had prepared himself for many things, for nearly every eventuality that his mind could conceive of regarding her. But he had never imagined this.

He had been perfectly prepared to love her in silence for the time that remained before the Fifth. The course of his life was set, his careful plans even now working to bring about what he envisioned for that day. There were but a few more pieces to set into place, and everything would be ready. Loving her had complicated things, certainly, but not too greatly—because while she brought a joy to his life that he had never previously known could exist, he had never imagined that anything would come of it. The Fifth would come, his plans would achieve fruition, and he would meet his fate with open arms, his love for her giving him the last bit of strength he needed to do what must be done—because she deserved to live in a better world than the one which Norsefire had wrought.

But this—her loving him in return—created a much larger problem. He felt the change the instant the words left her lips. Those few words had given rise to something that could quite easily prove fatal to his chosen course.

Hope.

Like a match to tinder, it ignited him, burning through every barrier he had ever erected with the uncontrollable force of a wildfire and allowing emotions too long suppressed to flood through him. It was a deadly thing, that hope—sharper than his knives and more deadly than his aim, it sliced cleanly through the bands of anger and hate that had bound him to his self-appointed destiny for so long.

The tentative touch of her fingers on his arm jolted him from the daze he'd been in since her unbelievable confession, and his head snapped up out of his hands to find her kneeling before him, eyes dark and expression carefully blank. She withdrew her hand slowly, eyes never leaving his. "V?" Her voice was as neutral as her countenance, betraying absolutely nothing of what was going on beneath her outward calm. "Please say something."

Such a simple request, and yet it suddenly seemed the hardest thing he had ever had to do. What to say—confess or deny? How to say it—gently or coldly?

The words his heart wanted to say were there, trembling just on the tip of his tongue, yearning to be set free, to be given to her.

_I love you too...dear God, how I love you._

But reason was slowly returning, gaining ground on the raging emotions that filled him nearly to bursting, and he could feel his resolve harden even as he stared into her eyes. He had spent twenty years learning how to banish his feelings, and he had been an attentive student. She had shattered more of his defenses than he had ever believed possible, but she had not disarmed him entirely—he had just enough resolve left to do what he knew needed to be done.

He was going to have to hurt her—something that his every instinct railed against. Even the cold voice of reason, usually so firmly against even the idea of her, suggested moderation.

But he knew this girl—almost better than he knew himself—and moderation would simply not do. If he were kind, if he were gentle, she would continue to hope. And as cruel as he would be, he refused to be so cruel as to let her believe that there would ever be anything more between them than there already was. That, above all, would have been the worst thing he could do.

Burying everything else, every softer emotion trying desperately to claw its way back to control, he took a long, slow breath, releasing it with a sigh.

"Forgive me," he said at last, voice admirably controlled, "but I fear I do not know what to say."

"Anything," Dara murmured, her façade of calm cracking slightly and the look in her eyes turning beseeching. "Say anything...just...please...say something."

"And if you do not like what I have to say?"

She swallowed, her throat suddenly too tight. "Don't have to," she said thickly. "Don't want a pretty lie, V. I want the truth, whatever that might be."

"In that case I must admit that I find myself puzzled by your declaration—or rather, by the motivation behind it. You cannot be so naïve as to believe that I would offer reciprocation of such affections—indeed, I cannot credit that the idea would ever have entered your head. So I must wonder what precisely you hope to gain by declaring yourself thus."

Dara had always prided herself on being strong. She did not simper, she did not sob and she did not go to pieces in a crisis—be it emotional or otherwise. But those words cut straight to her heart, and she could feel herself begin to crumble.

Blinking back tears, she pulled away from him. "Don't hope to gain anything," she whispered. "I just..." her voice cracked and she paused, trying desperately to gather herself. "I had to tell you, that's all. I don't expect anything from you, so you needn't worry about that."

"I am not worried, my dear," he rose from the sofa, walking a few long—_but necessary_, d_ear God, necessary_—paces away from her. "I am annoyed. I have allowed an astonishing level of familiarity to grow between us, but had I realized that you would take it as far as you have, I assure you I would never have done so. I have neither the time nor the inclination to humor such emotional hyperbole. It is an irritation and an inconvenience."

Dara stared blankly at the empty couch before her, not trusting herself to move. Her control was growing more precarious with each successive word he uttered, and she refused—_refused_—to break down in front of him. "Guess I should be apologizing then," she said, voice dull and flat, "for mucking things up so badly for you. I didn't do it on purpose, believe me."

"Whether it was deliberate or not is hardly the issue." His back was to her, knowing that to look at her would be folly. The pain in her voice was hard enough to bear—to see it in her face would be the death of his determination. "The real problem is what am I to do about the situation now?"

She finally did turn her head then, viciously swiping at a stray tear once her eyes had settled on his back. "I don't see that anything needs to be done," she said miserably. "The situation seems pretty much settled to me."

"That is entirely a matter of perspective," he replied. "From yours, I can see that things are quite settled. But from mine?" He shook his head. "I now have a vitally important question which must be answered before I can truly call things settled."

"And what's that, then?"

"Simply this—can I still trust you as unquestioningly as I have in the past? I hope you will forgive me for falling prey to cliché, my dear, but if it is true that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then I fear that the answer to that question is a resounding 'no'."

She reeled back from those words as if from a slap to the face, nearly falling over herself as she scrambled to her feet. Moving across the room—to the opposite side from him—she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling chilled to the bone. "I can't believe you just said that," she hissed, half incredulous, half angry and all wounded. "No...more than that...I can't believe you even _thought_ it. You can't possibly think that I'd betray you." She paused, shaking her head. "You know me better than that, V."

He'd hurt her with his accusation, as he'd known he must, yet it still left him aching inside. But words once said could not be unsaid—he could not turn back time and he would not apologize, so he set his jaw and shored up his determination. Turning towards her at last, he avoided her eyes, settling his gaze just over her left shoulder. "Do I? Quite frankly, my dear, I am no longer certain."

"I really don't believe this." Dara had never been one to back down from an argument—but she wanted nothing more at that moment than to run away from what was swiftly turning into the most painful conversation she'd ever had. "You can't be serious. No matter what else we are or aren't, we're friends. I would never do anything to ruin that."

"Perhaps...but then again, perhaps not; I shall need to consider the situation further before making a decision on the matter." He lifted one gloved hand and gestured toward the corridor that led to her room. "I believe that it would be in both of our best interests for you to retire now, my dear."

Lifting her chin, Dara reveled in the tiny flame of anger that his curtness sparked in her. "I'm not a bloody child, V. I'll thank you not to treat me like one."

"No," he agreed, "you are not a child. You are a grown woman, and as such, I should hope that you would possess the good sense to recognize when you're presence has become more burden than boon and thus take your leave accordingly."

That small flame of anger brutally snuffed out by the iciness of his rebuttal, Dara felt all the fight drain out of her like water through a sieve. Drained and tired and so close to tears that her eyes burned, she brought a shaking hand up to rub at them. "Why're you being like this?"

"Like what, my dear?"

"Cold…" Dara said, her voice cracking. "Cruel."

A negligent shrug. "I prefer to think of it as practical—I apologize that you do not see it thus."

"V...please..."

He made the mistake of meeting her eyes, the pleading in her voice drawing his attention despite his better sense. The heartbreak—the sheer devastation—that he saw looking back at him was nearly enough to break him. Composure swiftly reaching its breaking point, he turned away from her with a low growl. "Go to bed, Dara," he snapped. "You grow more tiresome by the second."

Heavy, oppressive silence hung heavy over the room for an interminable moment. V stared determinedly at the wall before him, so tense that his muscles were beginning to ache. Through his mind rolled a constant litany of words, willing her to go, begging her to retire...

_Go to bed…leave me…I need to think…I cannot think with you so near…please go..._

A single, tiny sob—a mere hiccup of sorrow—shattered the silence and brought the flow of his thoughts to a jarring halt, filling his mind until there was room for only one line of thought.

_Oh...Dara...please do not cry...not for this...not for me..._

Another small sob, followed by a gasping intake of air...and then, muted footfalls rushing across the stone floor...the click of a door closing...

She was gone—and so much farther away than just the few feet that physically separated them—but not far enough, not nearly far enough. But was there such a thing? Could there ever truly be _enough_ distance between them ever again?

She was nearly as essential to him as air already; how much worse would it be now that she had declared her love? He was not so foolish as to believe that he could continue to treat her with the same callous indifference that he had shown her that night—he had only just been able to keep himself from begging her forgiveness as it was. A few more such exchanges and he would be prostrating himself at her feet in penitence.

And that, he simply could not afford, not when the Fifth loomed so near on the horizon now. She had been a distraction before, and now that he knew that she loved him, she would be doubly so...and he had no time for distractions any longer.

That left him only one alternative, painful though it was to contemplate.

It would require both thought and planning, but he doubted that sleep would find him that night anyway; not with the knowledge of what the morning would bring sitting so heavily upon his heart.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

It was just past three in the morning when Will woke to an insistent tapping on the French doors that led out to the balcony. Glancing over at Liz, he was unsurprised to find her still sound asleep—she had learned to sleep through just about anything as she'd gotten older, where once even the softest of whispers would have jolted her from a dead sleep. Rising carefully, and moving across the room as silently as possible, he drew back the curtain just enough to see who was outside.

When his eyes fell upon the masked man standing on the other side of the glass, his blood froze in his veins. Throwing the lock, he tore the door open and stepped outside.

"What's happened?" Will demanded. "Is she all right?"

One black gloved hand lifted in a clear gesture of reassurance. "She is quite well, I assure you."

"Then what're you doing here? You got any bloody idea what time it is?"

The chin of the mask dipped in what could have been apology, though Will doubted it. "I am here because I need to speak with you. Or rather, I need to ask something of you."

Will's eyes narrowed, wary and suspicious of the man before him. "And what might that be?"

"The Fifth is approaching," V said without preamble, "and I can no longer offer her the protection that she needs. But while I am no longer willing to house her, neither am I willing to turn her out without thought or care—thus my coming here, to you."

One dark brow rose. A remarkably well rehearsed little speech, but he somehow doubted that he'd been told the whole truth. Knowing instinctively that this was not the sort of man one could directly address such observations to with any hope of answer, he decided to play along...draw the truth out of him another way. "So let me get this straight—you've had enough of her, so you're kicking her out." He shook his head. "Not very chivalrous, mate—'specially since you're the one what got her into this mess to begin with."

V winced beneath the mask, but gave no outward sign that the barb had struck home. "I am well aware of my culpability in the matter," he said quietly, "but be that as it may, the fact remains that she must find sanctuary elsewhere."

"Why?"

A beat.

"I beg your pardon?"

Will cocked his head to the side, arms crossing over his chest. "Why you kicking her out? What's she done to piss you off?"

V shook his head. "She has done nothing to..." he stopped, looking away. "It is not..." another pause, "she is..."

"...a bossy little bitch, I know," Will finished for him. "You can admit it, mate—remember, I _know_ the bint. Love her to death rightly enough, but she don't know when to shut her mouth and she's always gotta be right—only so much a man can take of that, yeah?"

V stiffened and Will could feel the intensity of his gaze even through the mask. "You claim to care for her, and yet you can speak of her so?"

Will snorted. "Yeah, well...caring for her don't mean I can't see the bad right along with the good. Now stop changing the subject, Fawkesy... you want me to do anything, you're gonna need be straight with me. Why you sending her packing?"

A long, heavy silence. And then...

"She is a distraction," V bit out at last. "And one that I can ill afford with so much at stake."

_Well, well, well...got your number now, mate_, Will congratulated himself. Smirking, he dropped his hands to his waist, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sleep pants. "I see," he said slowly, knowingly. "Hard to keep your eye on the target with a pretty piece like her larking about, eh?"

"I have not the time for this," V snapped, his patience waning. "Will you or will you not help?"

Leaning casually against the doorframe, Will studied the masked man closely, the smirk still firmly on his face. "She get a say in this deal? Or does she even know you're here?"

V drew back slightly, clearly caught off guard by the question. "She is asleep," he said after a moment.

"I'll take that as a no to both questions then." Will sighed, shaking his head. "I don't like this," he said after a moment, all pretense falling away. "Mostly because I'm pretty sure my girl's gonna be hurting when all's said and done. And there's nothing I hate more in this world than seeing one of my girls hurt. But if you've made up your mind about this, then believe me, I'm not gonna argue with you—she'd have been better off with us in the first place as far as I'm concerned. So you just tell me where and when—I'll be there."

"There is an old tube station entrance near Covent Garden. She will be there by ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

An eyebrow lifted again. "That's quick, innit? She must be one hell of a distraction."

That comment was ignored completely. "Will you be there?"

A shrug. "Said I would, didn't I?

"Thank you." V turned away. "My apologies for disturbing you at so late an hour." He was nearly to the edge of the balcony when he stopped.

Will didn't move, studying the masked man intently. He appeared to be fighting one hell of an internal battle—his entire body was tensed, hands curled into tightly clenched fists at his sides.

"If she is caught," V said slowly, his voice rough, "they will kill her." He half-turned back toward Will, the moonlight rendering him in stark chiaroscuro. "Swear to me that you will keep her safe."

If Will had entertained any doubts about how the man before him truly felt about the situation, they would have been silenced. A man who didn't care would hardly need a solemn vow to assuage his anxieties. Under the circumstances though, he didn't feel inclined to be the least bit reassuring. "What do you care if she is or isn't?"

Silence, then V's head dipped and a long, slow sigh escaped from behind the mask. "I care," he murmured, so low that Will barely heard him.

Hand twisting the knob behind him, Will pushed the door open. "Got a real funny way of showing it, mate." He shut the door a little harder than intended, and stayed at it until he saw V's dark shadow disappear from the edge of the balcony. Once his visitor was gone, he sighed, running a hand through his hair wearily. "Oh bloody hell..."

"What's going on?"

He pushed away from the door, meeting Liz's alert and mildly concerned gaze. "Just had ourselves a visitor, luv."

"Who?"

Walking across the room, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing her. "It seems Dara's gotten to be a bit too much for her masked avenger. He just popped by to see if we'd take her in; keep her safe since he can't—or won't—anymore."

Liz frowned, sitting up straighter. "He's kicking her out?"

"Looks like." He sighed, shaking his head. "We're to meet her at the old tube station entrance near Covent Garden later this morning."

"What happened?"

Another sigh. "He says she's a distraction."

Recognizing from his tone that he had his own ideas on the subject, Liz scooted closer to him, dropping a hand on her husbands arm. "What do you say?"

Blue eyes met hazel. "She's a distraction right enough," he confirmed. "A woman always is to the man that loves her."

She frowned again. "So...he loves her, but he's throwing her out anyway, even though it could potentially put her in serious danger." It was her turn to shake her head. "That doesn't make a bit of sense. What kind of selfish bastard does that to someone they care about?"

"Not selfish, luv." Will couldn't believe he was about to defend the blighter, but he just couldn't help himself. "The man's got himself a mission. We of all people ought to understand about putting the mission first, no matter what that might mean for the people you care about—we've done it ourselves more than a time or two, haven't we?"

She couldn't argue with that. Their dedication to their chosen cause had been so strong at one time that either of them would have willingly sacrificed anyone or anything if it meant the success of the mission—even their own lives. So yes, she understood. It didn't mean that she liked it, but she did understand.

She sighed. "So what are we going to do? It would be stupid to bring her here...she's too recognizable now. It would only take one wrong word to the right person to bring Norsefire down on all of us."

Will nodded. "Thought of that already, luv—and I thought we might give Caro a ring and see if she's up to having a bit of company."

Caroline Dorrington-Smythe—Caro for short—had been one of the earliest members of the Group and had fled England when Norsefire began purging so-called undesirables. Making use of the vast network of connections she had built during her years as an SAS operative in the British Army, she had become their go-to person whenever they'd needed to help someone escape the country.

It was the only idea that made sense, and Liz nodded, glancing at the clock. "It's just about 5am her time right now—I'll let her sleep for a few more hours," she said. "But you're right—that's probably the best and by far the safest place for Dara to go right now."

A pause.

"Do you think she knows that he's in love with her? From what you told me, she was quite confident that he wasn't."

Will barked out a sharp laugh. "Based on his reaction, I'd say definitely not. And I don't think he ever intends for her to know either. He's probably thinking that he's doing this just as much for her own good as his."

Liz wrinkled her nose. "God save us from brooding anti-hero's and their noble sacrifices."

Lips twitching in a smile that was half-grimace, half-smirk, he shook his head. "I know what you're thinking, luv, and you're wrong. He's the noble sort, yeah...but he's not another Liam."

Staring at him hard, Liz didn't know whether to be more surprised at his defense of V, or at his actual use of her ex's name. They'd been married for over two decades now, and she couldn't remember ever hearing him say it out loud before. "Yeah? How do you know that? You've only met V twice."

The grimace took over entirely. "Took me a lot less time than that to realize I hated Liam's guts."

Liz arched a brow at that. "You hate V's guts too."

"Apples and oranges, luv," Will said lightly. "I hated Liam because he was a prick who played you like a violin and then tucked tail and ran when things got tough. I hate V because he dragged one of our girls into a world of shit and now he's leaving it to us to help her out of it."

"And how is that different from Liam, exactly?"

Will sighed, hating the conversation. "Despite all the bullshit he fed you to the contrary, Liam was only ever thinking of himself, luv. V, at the very least, does have a higher purpose—I believe that much now."

They both fell silent at that, neither looking forward to the hours to come. Finally, Liz sighed and threw herself back against the pillows. "This is going to be an absolute bleeding nightmare, you know that, right?"

Will blew out a breath of frustration. "Yeah, it really is," he agreed.

"Why couldn't she have fallen in love with the bad boy from the other side of the tracks like any respectable girl? I have quite literally acres of top-notch advice to give on that. I mean, hello? Been there, done that, got the bloody t-shirt and the emotional baggage to prove it. But a Guy Fawkes wannabe with a bomb fetish...I've got nothing for that!"

"Well," Will glanced at the clock, "you've got about six hours to come up with something."

That earned him a glare. "No..._we've_ got about six hours to come up with something. You're going to be there too don't forget."

"As if I could."

A beat.

"You planning on going back to sleep, luv?"

Liz rolled her head back on the pillow, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "No...I don't think I could."

"Me either," Will agreed, rising from the bed. "I'll go put the coffee on."

Throwing the covers back, Liz stepped out of the bed. "I'll put the coffee on," she corrected, elbowing past him toward the door. "You never make it strong enough, and I'm definitely going to need the caffeine."


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Dara woke the next morning as she had nearly every morning for the past eight months—soft music from the jukebox in her ears and the smell of V's cooking in her nose. However, there was one very sharp difference between all those other mornings and this morning. This was the morning after the night before...and the night before had changed everything.

Turning her face into her pillow, she struggled to find the strength to get out of bed at all. Indeed, the desire to remain buried beneath the covers, safely hidden from the world in general—and from _him_ in particular—was so strong that her muscles felt like lead weights beneath her skin.

How was she supposed to face him? How was she supposed to walk out there and carry on as if this were any other day and not the day after he had rejected her so brutally?

After nearly fifteen minutes of silent debate, the growling of her stomach became nearly impossible to ignore—as did the inherent silliness of the idea that she could hide from him forever. She would have to face him eventually; better to get it over with as soon as possible so that she could see what sort of dynamic would exist between them from then out.

Because she doubted things would ever be the same again.

Forcing herself to rise, screaming mental orders at limbs that simply did not want to cooperate, she made the trek to the bathroom, splashing blessedly cool water over her face to wash away the remnants of the tears she had not been able to hold back in the end. She wanted to appear as unmoved as possible, to put on a face of calm indifference...anything to try and assure him that she would not make a scene.

A quick glimpse in the mirror was hardly encouraging—her eyes were puffy from crying, the sclera's an angry pink, and there was a sad droop to her lips that she didn't know how to erase. She tried smiling, but abandoned the idea almost immediately when it ended up looking more like a grimace than a grin.

A sigh, a few strokes of the brush through her hair, and she gave up the attempt at making herself presentable. If last night was any indication, he didn't care in the least what she looked like, so the effort was wasted anyway.

She spared one more glance at herself in the mirror, meeting her own eyes as she leaned heavily on the sink. "You can do this," she told herself. "You can."

That thought carried her out the bathroom door, down the hallway, and through the main room, but it faltered miserably once she reached the kitchen. The instant her eyes fell upon him, hard at work over the stove, that ridiculous apron tied round the unrelieved black of his habitual garb, she felt tears prick her eyes yet again. Swallowing hard against the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, she walked into the room, moving past him to the table, needing to sit down before her legs refused to carry her another step farther.

She stopped short when she reached her destination, eyes widening helplessly at its barren surface—no coffee, no creamer, no newspaper. Not even a place setting with a skillfully folded napkin.

Nothing.

Glancing around, she expected to find those familiar comforts lurking somewhere about the room. A quick inspection revealed nothing, and she slowly began to realize that the omission could only have been deliberate—especially in light of the deafening silence from the man behind her. He had never _not_ wished her good morning, no matter how angry they had been at one another the previous night—but he certainly was not wishing her good morning now.

Apprehension tingling throughout her entire body, she half turned toward him, almost scared to break the silence, but needing to hear what she already suspected was coming. "We out of coffee?"

He did not glance away from the stove. "There will be no coffee this morning."

He'd never spoken to her so coldly before. Not even the night before. It made her sick to her stomach. "Why not?"

"Because you are leaving."

And there it was. She'd known, deep down, that there would be no going back after the way he had reacted last night. Hearing it aloud though, and so plain...it still managed to stun her. "Leaving? I don't understand."

"What is not to understand?" He shifted the pan off the burner, finally turning toward her. "I am sorry to have to do this, my dear, but I am afraid it must be done. I have already made arrangements for your safety, so do not be concerned on that score."

"You can't be serious…you're…you're throwing me out?"

"As I said," he shrugged, so casual about the whole thing that she felt as if she were standing in front of a complete stranger, "it must be done. I know that it will be a great inconvenience to you, but it cannot be helped—you are proving too great a distraction."

A tiny spark of anger managed to work its way past the helpless terror his words had given birth to, and she planted her hands on her hips. "This is because of last night," she said, voice tight, "this is you doing everything you can not to deal with what happened last night."

"What happened last night is inconsequential—though it did, I confess, confirm the doubts that I had already been harboring about your continued presence here. But even had last night never happened, I should still have been showing you the door soon enough...you're part in my plan has come to its end." He paused, flipping the egg he was cooking expertly. "I have no further use for you, Dara."

Desperation swept away the last vestiges of her self control, and she crossed the room to grab his arm, pulling him around to face her. "Don't you dare! Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that! After everything...after all we've been through…don't you dare act like I don't mean anything to you!"

"I never said that you meant nothing to me," he pulled his arm from her grasp, taking a step away from her. "I do, of course, care about you, but quite frankly, that means very little to me when you have the potential to jeopardize my plans. Removing you from the Gallery is merely the means to an end, Dara—I must be focused entirely upon my work if I am to achieve what I hope to."

She was getting angry now, his blasé attitude sparking her ire in a way that she was ridiculously glad of. The anger drowned out the hurt, banished the pain. It made things so much simpler, so she focused on it, fed it, encouraged it to grow, and prayed that it would last long enough to get her through what was potentially the last real exchange she would ever have with him. "And just where exactly am I supposed to go? Don't know if you remember this or not, but I wasn't staying down here just for the fun of it! Wanted fugitive, me—or have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing," V said, still calmly collected. "And as I said, I have made arrangements for your safety. You will be returning to your family. They shall protect you."

It took a long moment for her to fully grasp the connotations of that, but when she did, she couldn't believe it. He must have gone to see Will and Liz sometime during the night—he was so desperate to get rid of her that he had actually gone to see Will and Liz about it. "And if they can't?" Her voice was shakier than she would have liked, strained by the amount of sheer will it was taking to not just crumple up at his feet. "If I'm caught?"

V shrugged negligently. "I do not foresee that happening, so long as you are circumspect and keep out of sight."

"Bollocks," she spat, "we both know it could happen, no matter how well I keep myself hidden. All it'll take is one person to spot me and that's the end of it—for me _and_ for my family. I can't believe you'd do this, V."

"I am doing what I must. I confess that it is hardly ideal for you, but I cannot allow concerns for your safety to outweigh the needs of the people. I must focus if I am to..."

"You bloody coward," Dara interrupted, spitting the words at him. "Don't you dare try and make it sound like you're doing this for the sodding people! You're not doing this for the greater good and you know it. You're doing this because I scared you last night. I finally got _too_ close, and that scares the hell outta you. And, in typical V fashion, you're pushing me as far away as you possibly can. Nevermind the consequences for the rest of us, just so long as you don't actually have to deal with it, yeah?"

"Are you a mind-reader now, that you can have so intimate a knowledge of my motives?"

Dara laughed derisively. "Don't need special powers for that, V. I know you well enough to be able to work this out on my own. S'pose I shouldn't be surprised though—you're always hiding behind something. Idealism, words," she tilted her head and made a sweeping gesture toward him, "Guy Fawkes—they're all masks you wear to keep yourself from actually having to sort out your life."

"You go too far," V warned, tossing the dishtowel he'd been holding onto the counter. "How dare you presume…"

"I'll presume as much as I damn well please," she barked, eyes blazing now, the flames of her anger fanned to an inferno. "And I'll go as far as I damn well please. We've never pulled punches with one another—and I'm not about to start now. You've lived alone with only your own opinion for so long that you've become completely blind to your faults and weaknesses—and believe me, V, you've got plenty of both."

"While you are perfection itself, I'm sure," he sneered, sarcasm dripping from the words.

"Never said I was," Dara retorted. "But I sort my issues; I work through them. The problem with you is you refuse to deal with your past. You refuse to move past it, when what you really need to do is just let it go!"

"Let it go?" V was clearly fighting to keep his temper in check. "How easily you say that, Dara...let it go. You have no conception of what you are asking of me. You have no idea what was done to me—and if you did, you would not dare tell me that I should _just let it go_."

Dara had spent a good portion of the night wondering whether she'd been right to pocket the Doctor's diary...but she knew now that it had been one of the smartest decisions she'd made in her entire life. "Actually, V, I know exactly what I'm telling you to let go of." She paused, steeling herself for what she knew would not be a pretty fallout. "I know exactly what was done to you at Larkhill."

That word froze him into immobility, the only sound in the entire Gallery the shuddering inhalations and exhalations of breath that issued from behind Fawkes' smile. Without waiting for him to respond, Dara plowed onward. "I know about your detainment...about the tests...the torture...St. Mary's..." she nodded toward him, "...about your escape. I know that you can't remember anything of your life before Larkhill. And I finally understand about the roses...and about why Prothero and Lilliman and Stanton had to die."

"How can you know these things?" V's voice sounded as if it came from far away, only a thin scrap of sound. "How can you possibly know?"

"The Doctor's diary," she offered without preamble or apology. "You were interested in it, which made me interested in it—so I took it."

"You...took it."

Determined to stand her ground, Dara squared her shoulders. "Yeah, I did. Read it last night—every single word of it. And it explained a lot."

"Those words were not for your eyes!" He had rarely, if ever, raised his voice to her. Indeed, she had rarely heard him raise is voice period, no matter how angry he was. But that had been a shout—a shout echoing with enough fury to surprise her back a step.

"Maybe not, but I needed to read them, V. They showed me so much..."

"Oh, I am sure they did," he cut in, the words almost a growl. "I am sure they showed you all the intimate, gory details of how one goes about making a monster. Because—and do not mistake this, my dear—that is precisely what Larkhill did. It made a monster of a man; a monster that was born of hatred and baptized by fire."

The instinct to correct him was too great to ignore. "You're not a monster, V...you're just a man. A man who's survived more than any other man ever could've..."

Her words were swallowed in a yelp of sheer surprise as she suddenly found herself pinned to the table, one of V's gloved hands holding both her wrists captive above her head, his other hand pressing the blade of a knife she hadn't even realized he'd been carrying to her throat. The mask hovered only scant inches above her face; so close that she could actually feel the warmth of his breath as he exhaled. "Would a _man_ do this?" He accentuated the words by applying more pressure to her wrists—though she noted that the knife, while wielded threateningly, did not touch her skin and did not move at all.

Dara, surprisingly calm despite her current position, relaxed in his grip, trusting—_knowing_—that he would not hurt her. "A man might," she said simply, "if he thought he had to."

"And do you honestly believe I _have_ to do this?" He punctuated the words with another squeeze of her wrists.

"I believe that you _think_ you do," Dara corrected, her voice deliberately gentle. "I must be cruel only to be kind, thus bad begins, and worse remains behind." He flinched, his head jerking ever so slightly away from hers and sucked in a short, sharp breath—that quote had struck the mark with more precision than she'd anticipated and she was very, very glad that she at least new her Hamlet. Suspicions confirmed, she looked up at him with a wounded frown. "Why're you pushing me away so hard? What're you trying to save me from, V?"

"At this moment," he growled, "the only thing you need saving from is me. By taking that diary, you have betrayed more than just my trust. I had a specific and extremely important purpose in mind for that book; one which it can now no longer serve, thanks to your meddling. You have compromised my plans, Dara Turner, and that I cannot forgive or forget. I have killed men for far less."

"Likely so. But you won't kill me, V," Dara stared up into his eyes, straining to see past the black screens that hid them from her. "If you meant to kill me, I'd already be dead." Her eyes flicked back and forth, studying every detail of his body language. "But you _are_ trying to hate me. You want that more than anything else right now. You wanna absolutely despise me for this...to detest the very thought of me, don't you?" She pushed her head up, resting her cheek against the mask, her lips settling near his ear. "But you can't hate me, V...no matter how hard you try."

She lowered her head back to the table, mildly surprised when he followed, the forehead of the mask pressing to hers. Fawkes' lips came within a millimeter of her own, barely enough room between them for the shuddering breath he released. She didn't move, didn't breathe—frozen in place, waiting to see what would come next.

What did—while disappointing—was hardly surprising.

As quickly as he had descended upon her, he was gone, the weight of his body and the cold steel of the knife disappearing as if they had never been there. Slowly, Dara pushed herself upright, sliding off the table to her feet, eyes locked on his back where he stood across the room.

"Leave," he said at last, his voice low and strained. "Pack your things and leave now."

"You can't mean this, V." Her anger was spent now, vanished completely and leaving her tired and bone-weary. "You can't honestly mean to make me..."

"ENOUGH!" He whirled around to face her, one gloved hand slamming down on the worktop with enough force to rattle the cabinets. "Get. Out. NOW!"

For a moment, all Dara could do was stare at him. Something hardened inside of her as she stood there; the urge to cry disappeared and the only thing she felt was cold.

"If that's the way you really want it, then fine, I'll go...and with pleasure, you absolute bastard," she said at last, stalking past him—deciding then and there that she was a fool for ever letting herself care about him.

*

He was standing at the jukebox when she entered the main room of the Gallery, bag slung over her shoulder.

She stopped for a moment, taking what could possibly be her last opportunity to study him. His normally impeccable posture was absent; his body slouched tiredly over the machine, hands gripping the sides of it so tight that she was surprised he didn't bend the metal. There was a droop to his shoulders that she could not remember ever seeing before, and the angle of his head...the angle of his head was all sadness. She was glad that she had never told him just how easily she could read him, else she knew he would have schooled his body into impassivity with the same uncompromising tenacity that he trained it to kill.

Closing the distance between them, she stopped behind him. "I'm assuming that you picked a specific location for me to meet Will and Liz, yeah?"

"Yes." His head dropped, the sag in his shoulders becoming more pronounced. "They will be waiting for you at the Covent Garden entrance."

"S'pose I should thank you for actually arranging a place for me to go instead of just chucking me out," she remarked, "but quite frankly, I'm not feeling very thankful for much of anything at the moment."

She took another few steps forward, eyes sliding past him to settle on the jukebox. She stopped once she'd reached his side, but she didn't look at him, her hand reaching out to trace over the glass dome of the old Wurlitzer—she'd miss the old girl once she'd gone. She dropped her hand away, letting out a dark, disdainful bark of laughter. "It's funny...all I could think about when we were dancing last night was looking through this old girl, seeing what sort of music she had in her library. Thought, if there was the right sort of music, maybe we could dance a bit more."

She looked up at him at the same time that he turned to look down at her. Offering him a cynical mockery of her usual smile—all she could manage, and still difficult to muster—she lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Amazing how quickly things change."

"Dara..."

"No," she shook her head. "No more words, V. I've had my belly full of them this morning."

His head dipped, body instinctively angling away from her. "You had better go...your family will be waiting."

"Yeah, likely so." She took one more moment to look at him. Not memorizing—she already knew every line of him by heart—just looking.

Turning away from him and taking those first steps toward the door was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. But she did it—one foot in front of the other, she moved across the room toward the door to the tunnels outside. She paused as she reached it, turning back toward him one last time, taking one last, lingering look. "Goodbye, V."

And then, the Gallery and its masked man were behind her. She did not look back—not allowing herself even a single rearward glance. She didn't cry, simply because there were no tears _to_ cry. Tears implied sadness...and she wasn't sad. She wasn't even angry...or bitter...or hurt.

She just _was_.

There were no feelings left inside her, only a strange, numb hollowness that made everything around her seem dull and flat. Logically, she knew that this blessed paralysis wouldn't last. Eventually, the dam would break and _then_ the tears would come.

But for the time being, she was well satisfied with feeling nothing. The emptiness was almost comforting after so many months spent full to the brim with too many emotions. Part of her hoped that she could make this want of feeling last for as long as possible—especially when she considered the alternative.

Even the word _feeling_ suddenly sounded odd—almost discordant—to her ears.

And when finally she stood amongst the only family she had left, Will's arms wrapped around her in what she knew was meant to be a comforting embrace, she could barely even remember what the word was supposed to mean.

*

V stared at the closed door of the Gallery for a long time after she had disappeared through it. His entire body was numb, every sensation stolen away by the haunting image of Dara walking away from him.

_I shall never see her again_.

That thought reverberated through his mind, its echoes traveling out to every corner of his body.

Eventually, he moved, his legs carrying him without conscious volition to the door of her room—_no, not her room_, his mind corrected, _not anymore._ He flicked the light on and then immediately wished that he hadn't.

She had made it her own over the months she'd spent there—everywhere he'd looked there had been some small reminder of the woman who occupied that space; a brush here, a hair clip there, a shirt draped over the dressing chair, a book left open on the night stand, the perpetually mussed sheets. But now, there was nothing. The room was as starkly empty of any evidence of human habitation as it had been before she had come into his life.

She had even stripped the bed, neatly folding the sheets and stacking them upon the corner of the mattress, Delia's journal placed square in the center of them. V walked over to the stack, one hand dropping to brush the small red book aside, knocking it to the mattress without a second thought before picking up the sheets. Her scent was heavy upon them, that delicate blend of lavender and vanilla seeming to permeate the very fibers of the cotton.

His breath caught in his throat, head dipping irresistibly toward the fabric. He inhaled deeply, savoring the soft scent that was so uniquely _her_.

And it was only then that he realized that this scent upon these sheets was the last and only piece of her left in the Shadow Gallery. Like the sun to fog, that realization evaporated the numbness, allowing feeling to once again course through his body. The reality of the situation slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs and driving him backwards two staggering steps.

Never again.

She would never again sleep in this room. She would never again come stumbling into the kitchen for breakfast. She would never again settle down into the corner of the couch to watch a movie with him. She would never again come tripping into the Gallery, exhausted but exhilarated from a night of patrolling, full of stories about the Fingermen she had fought.

She would never again drive him mad with her too pertinent questions and her too accurate insights. She would never again argue with him in that confounding way she had that left him feeling both insanely frustrated and hopelessly enchanted at the same time.

She would never again say good morning. She would never again say goodnight.

She would never again tell him that she loved him.

The sheets fell to the floor as he retreated from the room, legs carrying him through the now oppressively empty main room of the Gallery. But he could not stop there, simply could not—there were too many ghosts of her in that room. He stumbled onward, seeking the refuge of his own chamber.

Once there though, he stopped short at the sight of the bed, at the memory of holding her through one long, horrible night...and the older but still vivid memory of waking with her hand pressed to his cheek.

There was no safe haven from the specter of her, every room held a memory that cut like glass and yet drew him as a moth to a flame. Stumbling over to his dressing table—one place that had no memories of her attached to it—he nearly fell upon it, bracing his arms against its surface as his head dipped. Reaching up with one hand, he fought to loosen the ties on the mask, feeling oddly claustrophobic and desperate to free himself of it.

He tugged it from his face, sucking down gasping breaths and trying very hard to keep his composure. Lifting his head, he met his own gaze in the mirror. Blue, he noted, but not the right shade of blue; not _her_ blue—his were dark, cobalt to her sky.

"Are you satisfied now?"

He asked the question through lips that could barely form the words.

"She is gone." He watched his reflection, strangely fascinated by the emotion that flared in his eyes at that. "She is gone," he repeated, "and you have no one to blame for it but yourself."

To his amazement, tears began to blur his vision—real tears. He had not even realized that he could cry.

"She is gone," he said once more, nearly choking on the bitter taste the words left in his mouth, "and she is never coming back."

_Never coming back..._

He let out a strangled cry and the hand that held the mask struck out blindly, shattering the mirror and taking his reflection with it. He dropped into his dressing chair, face falling forward into his fisted hands as the tears he hadn't known he could cry turned to wracking, shuddering sobs.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_Two months later..._

There was nothing better than a good sunrise. And sunrise over the ocean…well, that was as close to perfection as anyone could reasonably expect.

At least, that was what Caroline Dorrington-Smythe firmly believed.

It was that belief which had drawn her to the south of Europe once she had left England and its issues behind her. Her search for a place to call home had taken her the length and breadth of the Mediterranean until, finally, she had settled upon Crete.

She had spent another several weeks surveying property all over the island before deciding on the villa that she had made into her own personal sanctuary. North of Elounda, near the small village of Vrouhas, it was in a quiet, out of the way part of the island that saw few visitors.

It had cost nearly double her initial budget, but the moment she had laid eyes upon the sweeping, panoramic ocean views and the wide terrace that ran the entire length of the rear of the house, all thoughts of economy had evaporated.

Not long after taking possession of the residence, she had come to the decision that she had too much fight left in her to retire from her old life completely. Taking advantage of both her extensive network of connections and her overabundance of guest rooms, she had begun taking in fellow exiles and providing them with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies until such time as they sorted out new lives for themselves.

She had seen all sorts of men and women over the years. At the core though, they were all ordinary folk thrown into extraordinary circumstances—vilified by the government either for their religion, their ethnicity or—like her—for their sexual preference. Some were, of course, more memorable than others.

But she knew that, for the rest of her life, none of them would ever stand out more in her memory than the girl she had been sheltering for the past several weeks.

The girl who was even now standing at the edge of the terrace, leaning on the balustrade and watching the colors on the waves below shift from the blacks and blues of night to the soft pinks and purples of dawn—the girl who had spent the past eight weeks pretending with all her might that she wasn't absolutely miserable.

Standing just inside the doors that opened out onto the terrace with a mug of tea in her hands and a frown on her face, Caro watched the girl with no small amount of frustration. The first few times she'd found her houseguest out there, she'd assumed that the girl was simply an early riser who enjoyed the sunrise as she did. But she had quickly discovered that if Dara was on the terrace at sunrise, it meant that she had been on the terrace all night long.

It was one of many signs of just how heartbroken the girl was.

During the day, she went through the motions. She smiled, she laughed, she made small talk. She did everything she could to show that she was all right.

And she failed spectacularly at it.

Of course, her performance might have been more convincing if Caro hadn't been fully aware of everything that had been going on in England over the past year. Indeed, there were very few Brits living abroad who hadn't heard the name Dara Turner at that point; a name that was inextricably linked to the name V. And the fact that she was here and miserable while he was still there…well, it suggested all sorts of things to Caro's sharply observant mind.

Not that Dara knew anything of any of that. As far as she was concerned, Caro knew her only as the daughter of old friends and a member of the Group who had gotten herself into a spot of trouble. It was the explanation that Liz had given her when she first called to ask for help and it was the explanation that Dara herself had repeated once she'd arrived.

Which was fine, really. The girl was entitled to her secrets. For now.

Caro had every intention of finding out the truth eventually. But she was curious, not stupid; she had no desire to alienate the girl. Her initial plan had been to give the girl time to come out with the story of her own accord. If that didn't happen, then she would take matters into her own hands—a sentiment which meant something very different now than it had two decades prior.

It would have been so very easy, once upon a time, to find out everything she wanted to know. Not difficult at all really, the extraction of information from an unwilling tongue—the right mixture of drugs and the appropriate application of force and she could have known every secret the girl had.

But it had been a very long time since tactics like that had been counted as part of her repertoire, and patience and persuasion now stood as the primary weapons in a once extensive arsenal.

That thought made her grimace and she took a gulp of her tea. It was hot and it burned, but it shifted her thoughts away from the unpleasant realization that she was getting old and back toward the girl on the terrace.

Taking another sip from her mug, she stepped out onto into the dawn. Because being patient didn't mean that she couldn't prod a little now and again—test the waters, so to speak.

Coming up beside Dara, she followed the line of the girl's eyes out toward the horizon, admiring the way the early morning light played on the waves. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Would I like to talk about what?"

Turning her head, Caro studied the profile of the girl beside her. "About whatever it is that has you spending more nights out here than in your bed."

"Not to be rude," Dara said, turning just enough to meet Caro's eyes, "but I'd really rather not."

"Yes, well…I really think you rather should. It isn't healthy to bottle up your feelings, luv."

"Yeah?" Dara looked away again. "Well…in my experience, expressing them can be even worse."

There had been a definite edge of bitterness to those words. "What do you mean?"

A sigh. "Look, Caro, you've been wonderful, taking me in as you have. And I'm really very grateful to you for everything you've done for me...but please just…don't. I don't wanna talk about it, so let's just leave it at that, yeah?"

The look Dara gave her then was pointed and firm, relaying more eloquently than words ever could just how serious she was; an expression composed of equal parts good, old fashioned intransigence and pure, uncompromising resolve. It was a look that Caro knew well. It was the one that said very plainly that any further attempts to draw the younger woman out would be about as useful as beating her head against a brick wall.

It was a look that she wore quite well herself—or had, in her youth. And she remembered very well how well she had always reacted to snooping.

Restraining a smile, Caro turned her attention back to the sea. "All right, you win. I'll stop. But if you ever do wish to talk about it, I'm here. And I must say, I really am a very good listener."

"I'll keep that in mind."

That tone implied that she wouldn't do anything of the kind, but Caro was hardly put off by it. She'd known too many hard-headed, tight-lipped people over the course of her life. She knew that given the right circumstances and enough patience, Dara's carefully controlled façade would crack. And when it did, the truth would come pouring out like water through a sieve.

Sighing, she glanced down into her mug, noting with a frown that her tea was gone. "I'm going back up to the house for a fresh cup of tea. If you're hungry, I could make some breakfast as well."

That earned her a smile. "I could eat."

All eagerness now, Caro grinned in return. "Lovely! I can make anything you want. I can do a proper fry up, if you'd like. Or we can go simpler. I could do fried egg on toast..."

"No!" The word was sharp and hard, the smile dropping instantly from Dara's face. "Please...no egg on toast."

An odd reaction to have to something so simple—which only meant that it couldn't possibly _be_ quite so simple. Caro ignored the questions that immediately sprang to mind and merely nodded. "All right...no egg on toast. Something else then—as I said, whatever you want." She turned, nodding toward the house in invitation. "Come on, we'll figure something out together."

Dara stared at her for a long, heavy moment, then gave a forced grin. "Yeah…ok."

They hadn't quite made it to the door when Dara spoke again. "I haven't been the most…pleasant person to have about," she said quietly, trailing along behind as they passed through the doors and into the house. "I've been broody and morose and not good company at all and I just wanted to say that I really do appreciate how understanding you've been about it."

"I'm not understanding," Caro corrected, glancing over her shoulder. "To be understanding, I'd have to actually know what's bothering you. What I am is tolerant—and very, very patient. When you've lived the sort of life I have, done the things I've done and known the sort of people I've known, you learn very quickly how important it is to be both."

A small smile curved Dara's lips. "Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand, whence harmonies, we cannot understand."

They had reached the kitchen, but Caro stopped in the doorway, frowning in contemplation. "What's that from?"

"A poem," Dara replied, shaking her head. "Never thought I'd be quoting Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, but I guess it's only natural that I'd pick up…" she stopped suddenly, lips compressing into a tight line and her façade of outward calm cracking just slightly.

"Only natural that you'd pick up what?"

There was a long silence then and Caro resisted the urge to stare the girl down until she answered the question, instead slipping through the doorway. She'd often found that the best way to keep someone talking was to act as though you weren't really all that interested in the answer. She doubted Dara Turner would be the exception.

"You know…quoting, poetry…that sort of thing. I had…_have…_this friend, y'see," Dara said in a strained voice, sounding so sad that it actually made Caro want to turn around and hug her. "He loves poetry—always has the perfect quote for every situation and I guess it sorta…rubbed off on me…"

Her voice trailed off as if she felt she'd shared too much. She hadn't, but Caro wasn't about to correct the misapprehension. Deciding to change the subject, or at least, the angle from which she approached the subject, Caro motioned for Dara to have a seat at the island as she moved to the stove. "Tea? Or I could brew a pot of coffee if you'd prefer."

There was a long pause, far longer than such a simple question merited. "Tea's fine," Dara said at last, that brittleness back in her voice once again.

Caro, her back to Dara, rolled her eyes as she prepared her tea and decided that enough was enough. The subtext was just getting ridiculous and her patience was wearing very, very thin. So much for trying to gently nudge the truth out of the girl…

"You know, I haven't really had a chance to mention it since you got here," she poured out a second mug of hot water, dropping a bag of Earl Grey into it, "but I wanted to tell you how much I admired what you were doing back in England. It's a shame you had to leave—I'm sure you wanted to be there for the Fifth."

Behind her, she could practically feel Dara stiffen.

"How do you know about that? Norsefire buried that story."

Caro turned, placing the steaming cup down in front of her guest. "Norsefire isn't quite as all powerful as they'd like to think," she snarked, scooting the sugar bowl over toward Dara. "Bootlegged copies of V's broadcast have spread all over Europe. Everyone knows who he is...just as everyone knows who you are. People are already calling you two heroes."

"I'm no hero—and I haven't done anything to deserve being called one," Dara said with a sharp shake of her head, so shocked by that bit of information that she forgot to be circumspect. "Blowing up the Old Bailey, taking over the BTN and making that broadcast—that was all V. I was just along for the ride."

Frowning, but thrilled that she'd finally gotten the girl to at least say the man's name, Caro leaned back against the counter, her own mug cradled between her palms. "But that's where you were living, right? With him? If you weren't a part of the plan, why were you...?"

"Because Norsefire thought I was part of the plan too," Dara interrupted. "Wasn't safe for me anywhere else."

"So you had nothing to do with anything that happened?"

A sigh. "I...helped a bit...here and there. But not much. Certainly not enough to deserve any of the credit. V planned it, V's executing it, and V's the only one that should be called a hero for it."

There was an intensity in Dara's voice when she spoke of V that Caro had never heard from the girl before—a depth of feeling beneath that single syllable that spoke of an attachment much deeper than the friendship she claimed. She'd only just broken the surface of Dara's emotions...time to delve a little deeper...

"Alright then, I withdraw the compliment." She set her mug down and turned away, moving to the pantry. "But you can pass it on to V the next time you see him. Tell him that this Brit is impressed."

Silence.

And then, faintly...

"It's not...we're not..." Dara sighed. "Don't really think there's much chance of me ever seeing him again, but...if I do...I'll tell him."

Inwardly preening, Caro gave herself a pat on the back for being so very right in her suspicions about Dara's relationship with V. She turned around, a package of pancake mix in her hand and absolutely no trace of her internal smugness anywhere to be seen. "How do pancakes sound?"

"Fine," Dara said as she sipped at her tea, her relief at the sudden subject change palpable. "I love pancakes."

For a few long minutes, they sat in silence while Caro began putting breakfast together. It was only once she had batter sizzling away in a pan that she decided to revisit the topic. "I take it from what you said earlier that you didn't leave London on the best of terms with V?"

"Thought I told you I didn't wanna talk about it."

Caro turned, waving the spatula at her. "But you just did talk about it, didn't you? I figured, since you've started, why stop? Whole thing should be free game now."

Dara stared down into her mug. "Well, it's not. So let's talk about something else, please."

"Right. As you say."

More silence, broken only by the hiss of batter as it hit the pan.

"If you were so safe with him, why are you here now?"

That earned her a glare. "You just said you wouldn't ask me anything else about it."

Another wave of the spatula, punctuated by a wicked grin. "No, I agreed to talk about something else. I didn't ask you the same question again, so technically, this is something else."

The glare had turned into an outright scowl, and Dara began to scoot off her stool. "You know, I'm not actually all that hungry," she snipped, clearly irritated. "Think I'll just go have a lie down. Didn't get much sleep last night after all."

"Oh, no you don't. You'll stay exactly where you are, my young miss, or I'll chain you to the bloody chair." Caro leaned against the countertop, directing a piercing look at Dara. "You know what I was, so don't you dare think I won't do it either. You can be as stroppy as you like about it, but I'm not cooking for my health, so _sit_."

Dara flopped back down onto the stool, still glaring daggers. "Thought we weren't s'posed to talk about what you were. Liz told me not to say a word about it—said your past was strictly off limits because it was too painful for you to think about."

Caro shrugged, dishing up a plate. "Parts of it are—but I'm not quite as delicate as all that. You were being stubborn, so I decided that a little reminder was in order."

"That how you always deal with people who don't do what you want? Flash your license to kill and intimidate them into falling in line?"

"First of all, you've seen one too many Bond films," Caro remarked as she dished up her own plate. "Second, I was Army Special Forces, not SIS, so the whole license to kill issue never came up. And if I intimidated you, then it's no less than you deserve—it's just rude to walk away in the middle of a conversation."

Now glaring down at the plate in front of her, Dara shook her head. "What happened to you being all patient and tolerant, that's what I'd like to know."

"Never said how long it would last, did I? This seemed as good a time as any to start being nosy instead."

In spite of herself, Dara had to laugh, finding it difficult to stay mad at the woman grinning at her so impishly from across the island. "Well, you're honest...that's something, isn't it?"

"To a fault," Caro agreed, then decided to give her guest a reprieve, being well satisfied for the time being. "But if you honestly don't want to talk about this right now, I'll drop it. But I want you to promise me that you _will_ talk to me about it eventually—you're repressing, luv, and repressing never did anyone any good."

Taking a bite of pancake to buy a little time to think, Dara weighed the request as she chewed. It somehow didn't seem quite so out of the question anymore.

"I won't promise anything," she said once she'd swallowed, expression serious, "but I'll think about it."

Tucking into her own breakfast, Caro smiled around a bite of pancake. "I guess that'll just have to do for now then, won't it?"


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Short chapter. Next chapter should be up in the next few days though.**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

The dream came back that night.

Sitting up in her bed, hands pressed over her eyes, Dara fought down the lingering fear that ate away at her stomach. Always the same dream, night after night—running so hard and fast that her lungs burned from the effort, winding her way through the twisting tunnels that surrounded the Shadow Gallery, pushing herself harder, needing to find him, desperate to reach him, panic squeezing icy fingers around her heart—and always the same sick dread sitting like an anvil on her chest when she finally woke.

She had walked out of the Gallery nearly two and a half months past...and she'd barely had a single night of uninterrupted sleep since.

Feeling the familiar claustrophobia closing in around her, she threw back the sheets and bolted from the bed, her feet treading the now too familiar path from her room to the French doors that opened up onto the terrace. She closed them quietly behind her and turned toward the sea, drawn toward the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky coastline.

"Can't sleep again?"

Whipping around with a surprised screech, Dara stared wide eyed at Caro, sitting cross legged on a lounge chair. "Bloody hell, you scared me! What're you doing up?"

The older woman only smiled serenely. "Waiting for you actually. I know I said I would leave well enough alone for now, but I can't just stand by and watch you eat yourself alive from the inside out."

"It's just a little insomnia," Dara said dismissively. "Really...don't concern yourself."

The girl was stubborn. But that didn't bother Caro...she was even more stubborn. She was also finally ready to forgo the niceties and get straight to the point. "You're in love with him."

Whatever she had expected, it was not the coolly collected tilt of Dara's head or the perfect calm in her expression. "Course I am. Thought you'd figured that out weeks ago."

Caro arched a brow at the girl, considering. "Oh, I did. I just didn't think you knew that you were."

Dara chuckled darkly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Believe me, it's something I've been painfully aware of for a very long time now. It's just not something that I particularly wanted to dwell on the past few weeks."

"Why not?"

Frowning, Dara regarded the other woman in confusion. "You mean you don't know?"

Caro shook her head. "How could I?"

"Well, you knew everything else about me…why not this one too?"

"I do know all the available details on your more public activities over the past year," Caro admitted, "but I certainly don't know everything about you. And I certainly don't know anything about the details of your relationship with V." She paused, bit her lip, considered, then shrugged. "Course…that's not for lack of trying, I will admit. But he's hidden himself better than I ever would have expected."

"You have no idea," Dara sighed, then sniffed and ran a hand over her eyes. "But I suppose I can't blame you for being curious. I know I sure as hell would be if the situation were reversed."

Leaning over to pat the chair beside her, Caro smiled. "Well then, why not come on over and have a sit down? Like I said, I'm a brilliant listener."

"You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"

Caro grinned. "Not bloody likely."

"In that case..." Dara padded across the stones, plopping herself down next to Caro resignedly. "Where should I start?"

"How about at the beginning—how did you meet him?"

A sigh. "If I start at the beginning, it's gonna be a very long story," Dara warned.

Caro shrugged. "Fine by me. I've got nothing better to do tonight—and sleep is overrated if you ask me."

So Dara told her. She told her virtually everything, amazed at how _good_ it felt to finally be able to talk to someone about it—about him. Caro, as it turned out, had not lied—she was a good listener. She didn't interrupt with constant questions, only listened. And it was only when Dara came to the end of the tale—stumbling through an account of their last evening together and the morning after—that Caro began to ask questions.

"Right then, bear with me for a minute while I work this out—you tell him you love him, he says he doesn't love you, then he kicks you out..." a frown, "...did he give a reason for wanting you to go?"

Dara nodded, her eyes cast downward, tracing cracks in the stone beneath her chair. "He said I was a distraction."

Caro's eyebrow lifted. "That doesn't make a bit of sense. If he didn't care about you more than he liked, how could you be a distraction?"

A good question, and one that Dara had asked herself many times over the past weeks. The two months away from him had allowed her to view what had occurred with new eyes, the distance granting her perspective that she hadn't had before. She had come to several conclusions during those long nights spent staring at the sea and contemplating life in general and a certain masked man in particular.

"Well that's simple enough, isn't it?" she said quietly. "He lied. Always knew he cared about me, even there at the end. But now...looking back...yeah," she shifted her gaze upwards, drinking in the stars, "he loves me."

Caro nodded. "Based on what you've told me, I would have to agree. But what made you realize the truth?"

She had been surprisingly candid with her tale, but decided that in this case, discretion was the better part of valor. Her reasons all lay firmly within those moments that she had specifically chosen _not_ to include in her story—because some things were simply too personal to be shared. "Lots of things really," she said evasively. "Problem is though—it doesn't matter that he does. He'll never actually say it and he'll certainly never do anything about it. We'll never be anything but a possibility, because he'll never allow us the chance to be anything more."

That eyebrow arched again. "That was probably the most defeatist speech I've ever heard in my life. And just why does he get to make all the decisions, might I ask? Don't you have any say in this at all?"

Dara shrgged. "I'm not being defeatist, Caro, I'm being sensible. I can't force him into anything—he's gotta want it as much as I do. If I try too hard…" She stopped, dropping her head against the back of the chair and watching the blinking lights of a plane as it passed high overhead. "I don't wanna push him any further away than he already is."

"Dara...he's in England—you're in Greece. He sent you packing and it looks like neither of you has any intention of ever seeing the other again. How much farther away could he possibly get?"

It was true...but...

"You're scared, aren't you? You're scared to even try."

Dara's chin jerked up. "I'm not..."

"Yes, you are," Caro cut in, and shook her head. "You're scared that if you try, you'll fail. But Dara, you're going to hate yourself if you don't take the risk. Not knowing what could've been if you'd only tried—the possibility that you _could_ have had something wonderful if only you'd made the effort—it'll eat away at you as the years go by. Trust me, luv...there's nothing more powerful or more painful than regret for the things you didn't do or say. Those are the regrets that haunt you till the day you die."

For a long time, the only sound was the crashing of the waves. Caro kept her eyes on Dara, who kept her eyes on the star-strewn sky above. Finally, the younger woman let out a long, deep sigh.

"Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden," Dara quoted, her eyes still trained upward.

"A quote?"

A nod. "T. S. Eliot."

"Wise man."

"Maybe." Dara lifted her head, eyes meeting Caro's. "The best I can do," she said at length, "is promise that I'll consider going back—because that's what I know you're getting at. But if I do...it's gonna have to wait till _after_ the Fifth. It'd be pointless to go before. But after it's all done—once the Fifth has come and gone—then...then maybe I'd have a chance of getting through to him."

"Like I said," Caro reached out and took one of Dara's hands between both of hers, "you'll never know 'til you try. And _when_ you go back, I'll keep my fingers crossed that you find your rose garden."

Dara didn't miss Caro's choice of words—or the inflection she placed on them. "_If_ I go back," she retorted in kind, "I won't settle for anything less."


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Argh, sorry for the delay…this chapter kicked my ass big time. **

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty**

_**November the Second**_

_She was running down a dark tunnel. Pushing, pushing...faster...faster...she couldn't run fast enough. Because he was out there somewhere in all this darkness; he was out there, and he needed her—she knew it, could feel it._

_He was in danger._

_She knew that too, right down to the marrow of her bones. If she didn't reach him in time..._

_But she would reach him. She _had _to__.__So she ran faster, lungs burning, legs screaming, her sword drawn and clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingers were cramping._

_He was around the next corner. She knew it now, could sense his presence...could hear voices..._

_Rounding the corner, she stopped short. There he was, standing with his back to her, so calm and cool even though he was surrounded, guns aimed at him from all sides. She breathed a sigh of relief; she had made it. He was still alive, and she was there to help now._

_She went to take a step forward, and her heart dropped into her stomach—her feet wouldn't budge. Looking down, she glared at the pavement that had grown up and over her boots, locking her in place. _

_That was when the gunfire began._

_When the first bullets hit him, she gasped, doubling over as pain exploded through the corresponding parts of her own body. She felt every wound as if it was her own, and the pain was nearly unbearable. With every second that ticked past, it became harder and harder to breathe, and she felt dangerously close to losing consciousness When finally he staggered backwards under the barrage of bullets, she felt her own legs buckle…_

A booming knock on her bedroom door tore through her unconscious mind and Dara bolted upright, instantly awake and sharply alert. She attempted to leap from the bed but the movement was cut short by the twisted confines of her bed sheets. She was a restless sleeper at the best of times, but during dreams like the one she'd just had, she was downright violent. As she fought to free herself, she overbalanced and ended up tumbling to the floor with a crash.

"Dara?" Caro's voice, muffled by the closed door, was sharp with concern. "Are you all right? Can I come in?"

"Gimme a sec," Dara snapped as she tore at the sheets and struggled to get her legs free at the same time that she fought to suppress the sick feeling in her stomach that her interrupted dream had left her with. She ended up kicking the bedside table in her haste and knocking the lamp that sat upon it crashing to the floor. "Fucking hell!"

The door flew open and Caro came barreling into the room. "What was…" she paused, taking in the scene she'd walked in on with an arched brow. "Did you fall out of bed?"

Pausing to push her hair out of her eyes, Dara blew out a frustrated breath before glancing up at the older woman. "A bit, yeah," she bit out. "I was asleep."

Caro's brow arched higher, her lips twitching a bit. "Would you like some help?"

Dara sent her a quick glare. "I'm fine," she growled, resuming her efforts to untangle herself. "Did you need something?"

Resisting the urge to help, Caro shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "I got some interesting news from home a few minutes ago," she began, her phrasing calculatedly vague in the hopes of stirring the girl's curiosity.

"Did you?"

Caro frowned. The girl couldn't have sounded more disinterested if she'd tried. "Aren't you going to ask what it's about?"

Finally managing to free herself, Dara pushed herself to her knees and picked up the lamp she'd knocked over. She settled it back into its place on the bedside table before glancing once more at Caro. "Fine, I'll bite. What's it about?"

Frustration mounting, Caro pulled her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest. The girl had changed over the past few weeks. As the Fifth had come ever closer, Dara had seemed to pull farther and farther away from the memory of the life she'd left behind in England.

It was annoying Caro to no end.

The girl was a fighter. A fact which Caro fully intended to remind her of…especially in light of the news she'd just received. And she knew just how to do it. "I just got off the phone with an old colleague—Alex Easley. You know him?"

Dara frowned, pushing herself farther up until she was sitting on the edge of her bed. "Course I do. He's a member of the Group—our inside man in Creedy's circle. What'd he have to say?"

"Oh, a bit of this…a bit of that," Caro gave a negligent shrug. "Most of it about V."

Dara's stomach did a somersault, but she steeled herself against the unease. "Really? What's he done now?"

"Apparently," Caro drawled, matching her casual tone to Dara's, "Creedy's cut a deal with him."

That little nugget of information hit home. Before Caro's eyes, the bland look that Dara had been regarding her with tightened, the mild look in her eyes hardening into something darker and far, far more intense.

It was a start, but not nearly enough. Time to step things up even further.

"There's more of course, if you're interested," she said airily. "I'll go make some tea…then, if you'd like, I'll tell you the rest."

"I'd really rather you just tell me now."

There was panic in those words—but more importantly, there was an undercurrent of pure steel beneath the panic. Oh yes, she was definitely making progress.

"No, luv…I think it best if you have a nice cuppa first. Then we'll talk."

"No!" Dara bolted forward, grabbing Caro's arm. "Don't give me that tea and comfort rubbish, Caro. Just tell me what's going on!"

"You're sure you don't want a cup of tea?"

"Caro!"

"Fine," Caro sighed, crossing her arms over her chest again. "Alex was called into a special meeting a few hours ago. Creedy informed them that V had come to him with a deal…"

"You said that already," Dara cut in. "What kind of deal are we talking about?"

Caro shrugged. "Quite simple really, they're going to kill Sutler."

Dara digested that information and found that it didn't particularly surprise her. It would only make sense that V would set his sights on the High Chancellor—he was, after all, the man who had started it all.

"And how exactly are they planning to do that?"

"Surprisingly easily," Caro said with a tight smile. "Creedy's inner circle had already been charged with escorting the High Chancellor to a safe location in preparation for the Fifth. Once they have him in their custody, Creedy and his men will take him to the agreed upon meeting place. I'm sure you can work out what will happen after that."

"Yeah." Dara chewed her lip, torn between admiration for the simple brilliance of the plan and utter fury at V's recklessness. "Yeah, it all sounds very neat and tidy. But…" she frowned, her annoyance getting away from her, "what the hell was he thinking, approaching Creedy like that? How could he have been so bloody stupid?"

Caro allowed Dara another few moments to chew on those very pertinent questions, using the time to plan her final assault. It was time to remind the girl what she was.

"There's something else, Dara," Caro said quietly. "And I'm afraid it's a bit worse than the rest."

Dara's heart leapt into her throat. "What is it?"

Another strategic pause.

"You're certain you don't want some tea?"

Dara made a sound of annoyance. "No, I don't want any bloody tea."

"Maybe you'd at least like to sit down?"

"Stop talking at me like I was a child!"

Caro shook her head and held up a placating hand. "I'm not talking at you like you were a child," she assured. "It's just that you've been in such a delicate state since you've been here…"

"Delicate state?!"

"…and I don't want to overwhelm you."

Dara was momentarily taken aback, staring at the older woman with a look that was half shock and half affronted pride. "You…you think I'm weak?"

"Not weak, dear," Caro reached out to pat her shoulder, as patronizing as she possibly could be, "just a bit…fragile."

_That_ struck home.

Drawing herself up to her full height, Dara glared razor-sharp, poison-tipped daggers at Caro. "I. Am. Not. Fragile."

Oh, Caro did love to see a bit of fire in those pale blue eyes. "Of course you're not, luv…"

And apparently, that was the last straw.

The growl that ripped from Dara's throat was pure fury—and it was the most glorious sound Caro had heard in a very long time.

Dara leapt forward, getting right up into Caro's face. "Don't fucking patronize me," she hissed, cold in her anger. "I'm not delicate. I'm not fragile. And I don't get overwhelmed. Now stop treating me like I'm gonna fall to pieces and just tell me what the fuck's going on so that I can bloody well do something about it!"

"About bloody time!" Caro's entire demeanor changed and she clapped Dara hard on the back. "That's just what I was waiting to hear. Welcome back, Turner."

Dara took a step backwards, thrown by the switch. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Be honest with yourself, Dara," Caro said, shaking her head. "You and I both know that you've spent the past few weeks moping about and playing the woe-is-me game. I was willing to let it go, but after what I just found out…" she took a deep breath and blew it out again. "I just couldn't let it go anymore. You needed a swift kick in the arse."

Had the situation been different, Dara probably would have laughed. As it was, she merely narrowed her eyes at the older woman. "Message received," she said with a sharp nod, the only acknowledgement she was willing to give that Caro had been right in her assessments. "Now stop playing games with me and tell me what's going on."

Dara was very right—the time for talk had well and truly passed.

"The main purpose behind Alex's call, Dara, was to get a message to you." She stepped toward Dara again, placing her hands on Dara's shoulders. "They're to kill him, Dara. Once Sutler has been neutralized, they're going to kill V."

The fire in Dara's eyes instantly blazed into an all consuming inferno. "No," she bit out, voice cold and utterly deadly, "they're not." Dara pulled away from Caro and was off across the room in the blink of an eye. "I'm going back."

Caro's had never smiled wider than she did at that moment. "Yes, I rather thought you would be."

Dara had already pulled her duffel from the closet and was ramming clothes into it. "When is all this s'posed to happen?"

"Late on the night of the fourth," Caro supplied. "Alex said they're to meet up with V in the old Charing Cross tube station. Apparently there's an old set of service stairs that's still accessible."

Dara paused in her packing, brow knit in thought. "They're using the stairs?"

Caro shrugged. "That's what Alex told me."

Dara resumed her packing with a small hum of approval, the vague outline of a plan already taking shape in her mind. "Convenient."

There was a long moment of silence, the sound of Dara's packing the only noise in the room. Just as Caro was about to once again offer her apologies for goading Dara as she had, the younger woman let out a sharp growl and slammed a pair of jeans into her bag with far more force than was necessary.

"Dara…?"

"I _knew _he was going to do something like this," she snarled. "I just bloody knew it! I've not been able to sleep a full night through in nearly three months because of that man and his goddamned vendetta! Every night! Every single, sodding night I've dreamt of him doing something stupid and ending up…"

Her voice trailed away as she ripped the zipper of her bag shut. When she finally looked up, her hands were clenched into fists and her expression had crystallized into brutal determination. "I'll be damned if I let that man go off and get himself killed—I don't care how fucking noble he thinks it is."

Caro had gotten all she wanted and more. Far, far more.

The woman standing across the room from her was more than just the fighter she'd thought they needed. She was an enraged warrior—a woman who would not hesitate to plow her way through an entire army if it stood between herself and the man she loved. Amazons…valkyries…they had _nothing _on Dara Turner.

"Having assumed that you'd react something like this," Caro said as she crossed the room to grab up Dara's duffel from off the bed, "I took the liberty of making arrangement for you to get back to England. I hope you don't mind."

"I have to be there by evening of the Fourth."

"Your ETA at present is late morning to early afternoon—and I don't see anything interfering with that."

Dara, pulling up her other pair of jeans, grinned at that and it was a vicious thing to behold. "Believe me…nothing will."

Caro smiled back. "Your flight leaves Heraklion in," she glanced down at her watch, "about three hours. You finish getting dressed and I'll go make you a quick breakfast. God only knows when you'll get the chance for a hot meal again, so don't argue with me about it."

"Fine," "Fine," Dara said, already focused on planning her strategy. She knew exactly what stairs Caro had been talking about. They did not lead directly down to the Charing Cross station proper, but rather to an old utility alcove. V had used it as a storage room for the more dangerous chemicals he required—a convenient spot, he'd said, because the stairs made it so easily accessible to the world above.

Her brow furrowed and she chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. If she could just…

The idea clicked into place as neatly as if it had always been there and Dara smiled. It was a very, very dangerous smile.

Oh yes, she knew exactly what she would do. She would just need…

A few minutes later, dressed and itching to be off, Dara walked purposefully into the kitchen. "I need a weapon."

Caro, standing at the stove with a spatula in her hand, arched a brow at the abruptness of the statement. "I'm sure that can be arranged. Do you have something particular in mind?"

"Something small, compact—easily hidden; a gun would work, I guess...but a knife would be even better."

Caro set the spatula down and turned to her in disbelief. "You're joking, right? A knife over a gun?"

Dara shrugged. "I'm rubbish with guns," she explained. "I can barely hit the paper at ten. But I'm deadly with a blade, and I think I'd much rather stick with what I know I'm good at."

Caro shook her head. "If I'd known that, I would've taught you how to shoot while you were here. Maybe," she regarded the younger woman with an uncharacteristic dash of hesitation, "maybe when you come back to visit me sometime, I could give you a lesson or two."

"Yeah," Dara replied, forcing away the urgency for a moment, "I'd like that."

"You're always welcome," Caro said quietly, and meant every word. "But anyway," she continued, "you want a knife and it just so happens," she stuck her hand behind her back, "that I keep something that might do very near at hand."

When she pulled her hand back in front of her, there was a small, ivory handled dagger resting in her outstretched palm. "Will this work?"

Dara couldn't help but chuckle. "You walk round your house with a dagger sheathed at your back?"

Caro shrugged. "What can I say? Old habits die hard."

"They do indeed," Dara agreed as she reached out and took the proffered blade. It was small enough to conceal easily, but large enough to be intimidating. "Perfect," she announced, then eyed Caro. "Think maybe I could borrow the sheath as well?"

"Absolutely not," Caro denied her. "This one was a gift—one I'm not willing to part with for anything. However, I do have an old ankle sheath in the top drawer of my wardrobe. It fits that knife just as well as this one does. I'll get it for you after you eat your breakfast. You can take that one."

"Thanks," Dara grinned. "I can't wait to get going. I wanna get there as soon as possible…sooner even. I refuse to be too late."

Lifting a brow, Caro crossed her arms over her chest. "This isn't Bewitched, you know...I can't just wiggle my nose and _poof_…your in London. It's gonna be slow going once you hit France. It's far easier getting out of England than it is getting in, you know."

"Oh, I know that," Dara assured her. "I'm not expecting miracles. I'll just feel much better once I'm on my way."

"Well, you'll do yourself no favors by not eating a good meal right now. You're certainly going to need the energy. So the best thing you can do right now," Caro said, motioning toward the stool at the counter, "is to sit down and eat your breakfast. The rest will take care of itself."

"Ok."

Caro had just turned back to the stove, ready to tip the cooked bacon onto a plate when Dara asked a question that made her feel as old as the hill her villa was built on.

"Caro…what's Bewitched?"


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: ****Long chapter this time. Very long. And only a few more to go from here!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-One**

_November Fourth_

He had not slept again.

He had fallen into bed after a long days work just as the clock struck five in the morning. But despite his exhaustion, sleep had been frustratingly elusive. After several hours of tossing and turning, he had given up.

But he was still so very tired.

He wished that he could claim that the calendar was responsible—that his insomnia owed itself to anticipation of the imminent culmination of his life's work—but that was a lie that he couldn't even convince himself of. Perhaps, if it had been the first such night...

But the past weeks had seen so many sleepless nights that they had become the rule rather than the exception.

Indeed, he had nearly come to think of sleep as a luxury to be indulged in rather than a basic necessity of life. Too many dreams plagued what little slumber the fates afforded him—dreams that he wished would fade upon waking, but never did. Some nights, it would be images of her capture rolling through his subconscious—visions of her imprisoned, tortured...killed.

But those were not the worst dreams. Those dreams were easily banished, simply by watching the news. If she had been found, Norsefire would waste no time in plastering it all over every television screen in England.

Far more difficult to dismiss were those dreams which brought her back to the Gallery—brought them both back to that night, so long ago now, when words of sublime torture had fallen from her lips like manna from the heavens. In those dreams, he did not push her away as he had then, nor did he keep in check the words that had so desperately longed to be spoken. In those dreams, the night ended very differently than it had in reality.

He hated those dreams—despised the feeling of utter desolation that always accompanied waking from them to the still silence of a Gallery without her in it. A Gallery that felt larger and quieter than it ever had before.

It was amazing how quickly he had grown accustomed to her presence. The cadence of her light tread upon the floors, the lilt of her voice as she hummed along to the jukebox, the peal of her laughter—she had infused his home with a warmth that he had never even known it was lacking.

And now, after twenty years spent living alone without ever truly feeling lonely, a few short months spent with her had changed him entirely. The quiet, once so comforting, was now heavy and oppressive; the solitude that he had once craved now hollow, empty.

He did his best to fight those feelings, utilized every weapon within his possession with the desperate hope that the void her departure had created could be filled somehow. The jukebox and the television did their level best to keep the silence at bay, battling it day and night without abeyance. But music no longer moved him as it once had, and film failed to provide the vicarious escape he had once relied so greatly upon—thoughts of her were simply too pervasive and far, far too close.

Indeed, the only time the ghost of her was far enough away to grant him any sort of peace was during those outings above, when he was putting together the last few and oh-so-terribly critical pieces of the great jigsaw puzzle that was his plan.

But even then, even while his revolution was taking shape precisely as he had envisaged, she was still there...

How he had ever imagined that physical separation would eliminate the distraction she signified was a mystery to him. She was as far from him as she had ever been, but it had not helped in the slightest, and he began to suspect that distance alone would never be enough. Unless he could purge her entirely from both his mind and heart, there would be no escape.

The memory of her, it seemed, was just as stubbornly persistent as the woman herself.

And it was that memory of her that drew him, on those long, sleepless nights, to her room—for, regardless of her absence, _her room_ it had been and _her room_ it would remain. On such nights, he would keep a silent vigil in the chair at the bedside, his mind consumed with thoughts of her.

Even then, on the very eve of the Fifth, it was in that chair that he sat—those memories holding him in the one room above all others that still somehow retained the essence of her.

He leaned forward, one gloved hand reaching out to caress the cool cotton of the sheets—the same sheets she had so thoughtfully stripped from the bed before departing; the same sheets that he had carefully put back on the bed the very next day—unwashed and still smelling of her.

It had been an odd thing to do, even by his own standards, but so entirely beyond his power to negate was that inclination that he merely accepted it and did as it bade. A fact that he became more and more thankful for as the months slid past, and one day merged into another until he sometimes forgot which day it actually was. The scent had faded over time, but even now, he could still detect it—that soft, delicate blend of lavender and vanilla.

All that was left to him of her, that lingering trace of scent—and he guarded it as fiercely as he would have the woman herself.

_Oh, Dara._

The clock in the hall struck half past ten, and V let out a deep sigh. Time—_his _time—was very close to running out.

He lowered his head, eyes closing behind the mask as gloved fingers curled desperately into the sheets. "If I could have been blessed with one wish," he murmured, speaking to the image of her that lived behind his eyes, "I would have wished to see you again…just once before…"

The words trailed off, unwilling to confess his intended course even to the ghost of her—because the blue eyes that lived in his memory were just as capable of flashing fire as their living counterpart. And he did not have the heart to face her anger.

"_So close, no matter how far…couldn't be much more from the heart.."_

His head shot up, eyes flying open behind the mask. The jukebox.

"_Forever trusting who we are…and nothing else matters…"_

Someone had turned on the jukebox.

"_Never opened myself this way…life is ours, we live it our way…"_

No…not someone…

"_All these words I don't just say…and nothing else matters…"_

Only one person knew the location of the Gallery.

"_Trust I seek, and I find in you…every day for us something new…"_

And only one person would have chosen that song in particular.

"_open mind for a different view…and nothing else matters…"_

She'd been ecstatic when she'd found Metallica in the song list.

"Dara…" V breathed her name into the room, rising to his feet and moving slowly toward the door. Each step seemed to take a lifetime, and he didn't know whether to curse his limbs for refusing to move faster, or command them to slow down even further. Because there was just enough doubt in his mind to form the thought that perhaps it wasn't her.

Perhaps it was nothing more than a short in the wiring.

"_Never cared for what they do…"_

It was logical. It was possible. And given the way they had parted, entirely probable. Why would she ever return after the way he had treated her? What could possibly draw her back?

But, dear God, how he wanted it to be her...

"_Never cared for what they know…"_

He had no illusions—there would be no heaven waiting for him on the other side of death; he had done too much, killed too many, to ever be granted admittance to Paradise. But he would never regret the loss of Heaven—would even welcome the eternal fires of Hell—if the Fates would permit him just one more moment in her company.

"_But I know…"_

When he came to the doorway that led into the main room of the Gallery, he stopped, one hand extending to press against the smooth stone of the wall beside the door, trying desperately to find the courage that had abandoned him.

"_So close, no matter how far…couldn't be much more from the heart…"_

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he pushed the door open—but slowly, so slowly. Stepping out into the main chamber, his eyes immediately sought her out, scanning every corner, every shadow.

"_Forever trusting who we are…and nothing else matters…"_

One more step forward, and his eyes found the jukebox…

His forward progress came to a shuddering halt at the sight of her. So arresting, the image she presented—one denim-clad hip propped against the old Wurlitzer, arms crossed loosely over a long sleeved black shirt, looking so very collected and casual that he felt himself wilting beneath the cool blue gaze aimed unblinkingly at him. He was at a loss...an utter loss. Words, usually so simple for him, escaped him entirely as he stood there staring at her dumbly. He could not think of a single thing to say that would not sound either ridiculous or hackneyed.

"_Never cared for what they do…never cared for what they know…but I know…"_

They stared at one another in silence for a long moment, and then her lips curved into a surprisingly warm grin. "Sorry to drop in unannounced," so genial, those words, as if nothing untoward had happened between them, "but I thought you might need a bit of company tonight. Hope you don't mind."

"_Never opened myself this way…life is ours, we live it our way…"_

"You…you came back…" he took another, hesitant step toward her, eyes devouring her, drinking her up like so much water after too much sun. So achingly lovely, such a joy to eyes that had despaired of ever again having her within their sights. "I never dreamt you would come back."

"_All these words I don't just say…"_

A shrug. "Well, I didn't have anything better to do."

He could tell by her tone that it was meant to have been a joke, but he did not laugh; could not laugh when he was still far too caught up in just _looking_ at her. "You look well."

"_Trust I seek, and I find in you…every day for us something new…"_

There was so much relief in his voice that the old, familiar warmth that only he had ever been able to inspire filled her from head to toe, easing the worry that he would order her out immediately. "I've been well," she said, and meant it—because despite the heartache of being apart from him, she _had_ been well—Caro had been an impeccable host.

"_Open mind for a different view…and nothing else matters…"_

Another step toward her. "I must confess…I worried about you. Every time I heard a siren, I worried about you." He could have said more. Could have admitted that he had watched the news in its entirety every night since she'd left, dreading that each night would bring the news that she had been caught. Could have admitted to being haunted by dreams of her in one of Creedy's holding cells…of her being beaten and tortured…of her lifeless, empty eyes staring out accusingly from her too still face...

"_Never cared for what they say…never cared for games they play…"_

The very eyes he had dreamt of so often, darkened at his admission, turning just a little colder. "Yeah? Well, you wouldn't have had to worry if you hadn't kicked me out in the first place—so I call that a bit of poetic justice."

Her dig struck home and he shied away from her, feet changing course instantly and carrying him in a wide arc around her rather than directly toward her. She'd spoken nothing but the truth, and, as he had long ago discovered, there was nothing more painful than the truth. Too dangerous, those waters...too deep, and he had been treading too long without a life vest as it was.

"_Never cared for what they do…never cared for what they know…and I know…"_

"The irony was not lost on me, I assure you, my d..." he stopped himself, no longer confident of his right to that favored term of endearment. "You owe me nothing, Dara, of that I am well aware. But I must ask...how did you escape detection?"

The coldness thawed, though her eyes still remained hard. "Oh that? Was easy really—I just took your advice, V. I was circumspect and I stayed outta sight—far outta sight." Finally, her smile reemerged. "Crete's lovely this time of year, y'know."

"_So close, no matter how far…"_

"Crete?"

"Yeah, Crete. You know—one of the bigger islands in the Mediterranean?"

"I know where Crete is," he snipped crossly. "Whatever were you doing there?"

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Dara instead crossed her arms over her chest. What was she doing there indeed? What did he _think_ she was doing there—taking a holiday? "Scientific expedition," she quipped. "I was studying the behavioral patterns of Greek men."

"_Couldn't be much more from the heart…"_

She could almost see the arch of a brow beneath the mask.

"Really?" She was being deliberately provocative, he could tell. But he decided to play along. "How fascinating. And what were your findings?"

She didn't even hesitate. "Pretty predictable really—they're dark, they're handsome, they love to fish, drink far too much ouzo, and flirt shamelessly with every girl in sight. And I have to admit, it's a pretty lethal combination for a poor girl's…sensibilities."

It had been a spur of the moment decision to add that last bit. Especially with that all too suggestive inflection she had put into it. She wasn't quite sure where the inclination had come from, but his reaction—immediate, undeniable, and so very, very revealing—made her inordinately glad that she'd followed her instincts.

His entire carriage changed—though so infinitesimally that she doubted anyone besides herself would have even noticed. Muscles that had been almost too lax, suddenly snapped tight and for the first time in months, she could feel the full intensity of that veiled gaze bore into her.

"_Forever trusting who we are…no, nothing else matters…'"_

It was only after the last few bars of the song had faded, leaving the Gallery shrouded in thick silence that he gathered himself enough to speak. "An interesting analysis," he said, voice tight and rough, "though one I am unqualified to appreciate the full measure of—the idiosyncrasies of the Greek male are, I confess, well outside the scope of my knowledge. Thus, I shall have to bow to your seeming expertise on the subject."

She'd never heard him sound quite so disdainful before, and she absolutely adored it. Restraining a grin, but unable to keep her brow from arching high upon her forehead, Dara tried and failed to restrain a knowing smile. "Well, someone's awfully snarky. What's wrong, V? You're a scholar aren't you? Or are Hellenic mating habits too earthy for your high-brow palate?"

She was being petty and vindictive and very, very cruel—but she was enjoying every moment of it. She had several months worth of pent up and still entirely too raw anger built up at him, and was finding it refreshingly therapeutic to torment him.

"If this is all you have to say, I wonder that you bothered to return at all," V snapped, his voice darker than the clothes he wore.

Staring at him, reveling in a few more moments of the jealousy she could feel rolling off him in waves, Dara finally blew out a sigh. "Oh calm down, V," she chided. "I was only joking."

"Joking?"

Dara nodded. "Yeah, joking. I've spent the past few months living with a middle-aged lesbian who also happens to be an ex-special forces operative—so quite frankly, my exposure to Greek men of any kind, let alone the young and handsome ones, was a bit limited."

V, studying her through narrowed eyes, didn't know whether to be relieved or furious. "And your reason for concocting such a sordid tale?"

Choking on a laugh, Dara shook her head. "First of all, I'd hardly call that sordid," she scoffed. "And second of all, keep talking down to me like that and I'll..."

"You'll what," V interrupted, "leave and never return? Perhaps you should not have come back to begin with," he growled, already retreating from her as he tried desperately to ignore the frantic instinct to beg her not to go. "Perhaps you should have remained safely tucked away with your myriad Greek paramours rather than returning here where you are not wanted. Perhaps it is time that I sent you packing just as I did..."

He was silenced by one long, slender finger pressed firmly against Fawkes' mouth. The light pressure on the mask, combined with the memory of that finger as well as its sisters trailing across the ruined skin of his face, and he could almost imagine that it was his lips she touched and not Fawkes'. Looking down into the eyes that were turned up to his, their expression caught somewhere between frustration and affection, he felt himself falling into her all over again.

"Just once, V," she said after a long, pregnant pause, "just once, could we please have an argument that _doesn't_ end with you telling me to leave? 'Coz I hate to break it to you, but I'm not going anywhere—not tonight. And there's not a damn thing you can say that'll change that."

She could sense him gathering himself for another argument, could almost feel the words bubbling up from inside him. He was not going to make this easy, not now that his temper had been piqued.

_In for a penny,_ she whispered to herself, _in for a pound._

"And besides," she continued, letting her hand slide up to cup Fawkes' cheek in her palm, forcing V's eyes to hers, "no matter how much you bluster about it, we both know you don't want me to go. Just like we both know there's no one you'd rather spend this evening with than me." She leaned in closer, angling her head up to keep the black-screened eyes well within her sights. "Don't we?"

Caught in the intoxicating closeness of her, V could only nod, the mask dipping toward her.

Grinning, Dara nodded once in return. "Good." Pulling her hand back, she turned away from him. "Now that's settled, we can have a nice, pleasant evening."

The suddenness of her retreat left him feeling unaccountably cold, missing the warmth that had radiated from her. Blinking a few times to try and clear his head, he nearly leapt backwards when she was suddenly pressed close to him yet again as the soft strains of another song hummed lightly in the background.

"Dance with me, V."

The breath he had not even realized he'd been holding escaped in a puff of surprise. She was looking up at him with a beguilingly soft half-smile on her lips and an unmistakable invitation in her eyes. Such a mystery to him, this girl was. How quickly she could change from coldly accusing to coyly enchanting.

When he said nothing, Dara only smiled wider, her expression turning mischievous. "The song only lasts so long. If we're gonna do this, you better get a move on, yeah?"

His arms opened to her before his mind even determined that he would—or even if he should. "If you wish to..."

Her grin broadened. "Even on the eve of your revolution?"

Her playfulness was contagious, and he felt his spirits—so dark only moments before—rise in kind. It was a hopeless situation; the Fifth was upon them, his plans were set, and his fate was sealed, but he could not help but feel that at that moment, everything was right with the world. Smiling beneath the mask, he gave a small shrug of his shoulders. "A revolution without dancing, my dear, is a revolution not worth having."

She did not realize how much she had missed that term of endearment until she heard it once again upon his lips. "Well in that case..."

It felt like coming home, slipping into his arms, and for a few blissful moments, her mind was empty of all thoughts but him—the feel of his hand at her waist, the corded steel of his arm beneath her fingers, the warm strength of his leather-clad fingers wrapped around hers. But it was a fleeting moment, and reality began to reassert itself, shadowy fingers of memory encroaching upon her happiness.

He planned to die that night—it was a realization she'd come to during her journey back. Far from a stupid man, V would have known from the beginning that Creedy would never let him just walk away once Sutler had been dealt with.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, her stomach dropping. The meeting time was set for 11:45, and it was now just past 10:45.

One hour. Here he was, dancing with her as if nothing in the world could possibly go wrong, all the while fully expecting to die in a little over an hour.

If the moment weren't so bloody perfect, she thought she might kill him herself.

"So what've you been doing with yourself while I was away?" She asked the question to distract her thoughts—it wouldn't do to let him know that she knew of his plans. "I mean, other than sending out seven hundred thousand Guy Fawkes costumes to everyone in England, of course."

The chin of the mask dipped as he let out a low chuckle. "Is that not enough?"

"Should be, I s'pose," she admitted, "but I know you better than that, V. That was probably only one part of a bigger plan, yeah?" A pause—a grin. "It was bloody brilliant though. They're all over the place now."

Another dip of the mask. "As was my intent."

Dara sighed. "It was strange. Your face was everywhere—even in Greece; that mask's a bloody icon now. It was hard to see that grin every day, everywhere I looked and not wonder about where you were and what you were doing." She lowered her gaze. "And I did wonder; every time I saw a mask...I couldn't help but wonder..."

The wistfulness of her tone wrenched his heart, and he looked away. "Conceal me what I am, and be my aid, for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent."

A small frown creased her forehead as she tried to place the quote. "Is that…Shakespeare?"

A nod. "Twelfth Night. You have not read it?"

"No. Never gotten round to that one."

"It is, perhaps, not one of his greatest works, but it has its charms—and its share of notable lines." He sighed, his momentary good humor fading along with the song they were dancing to. "My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone."

Dara stiffened. "Don't much care for that one."

He pulled away from her, hands falling to his sides. "It is the truth though, my dear...hard though that may be for you to hear. You would do better to take your leave of me immediately."

"V," Dara warned, eyes narrowing at him, "we've been over this. I'm right where I wanna be, and I'm not going anywhere."

"And I cannot tell you what it means to me to hear you say that. I have...regretted my decision to evict you as I did. But it was the only thing I could do under the circumstances. You were, as I said then, a distraction that I could no longer afford."

That still stung, even after so many months. "I wouldn't have been a distraction," she argued, "I would've helped you! I would've worked right along side you to the end."

He knew that. He had always known that. She was a fighter; she would have stayed at his side to the very end, regardless of what that end happened to be. And that was the problem. It would have been her strong, steady presence beside him that would have been the distraction. He could not have given his plans the focus they required if he'd had to worry about her. Of course—in the end—sending her away hadn't made him worry about her any less, but he'd had no way of knowing that at the time.

"You had already done more than your part, my dear. This is my vendetta, not yours."

"That it is," she agreed, "but I think we can both agree that I've got a vested interest in the outcome, yeah?"

"As a citizen of this nation, I should certainly hope so."

"Well, yeah," Dara agreed, "there's that. But that's not what I meant, and you know it. It's not the politics of it that concern me, V—it's you. Told you a long time ago that I worry about you, and I still do. We women tend to do that about the men we love."

V stopped, his arms dropping away from her as he shook his head, trying to ignore the thrill that ran through him at hearing those words from her yet again. "There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, that can hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul." He sighed. "You are nothing, my dear, if not persistent."

"Yeah, well, I read somewhere that victory belongs to the most persistent."

He very nearly laughed. "It is never a good idea to quote Napoleon Bonaparte to an Englishman, Dara Turner," he chided. "And besides, it is 'victory belongs to the most perseverant', not to the most persistent."

She huffed, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. "Perseverant...persistent...it's all just semantics, innit?"

"I suppose it would be, to a mind such as yours."

"And just exactly what's that s'posed to mean?"

He smiled behind the mask. "Nothing ill, I assure you."

"Then why..." she stopped, giving him a frosty look. "You're baiting me. Stop it. I didn't come back to fight with you."

Now that was an opening that he simply could not allow to pass unnoticed—the perfect opportunity to voice the question that had been plaguing him from the very moment he had laid eyes on her. "Why did you come back?"

"Why do you think I came back?"

Answering a question with a question—one of the few things he had _not_ missed about her. She could be the most infuriating woman alive when she chose. "Quite frankly, my dear, I cannot fathom your reasons for doing so."

"Liar," Dara shot back at him, though the accusation wasn't nearly as cutting as she'd intended for it to be. "_Can't_ has absolutely nothing to do with it—you _won't _let yourself fathom why I'd come back."

"Is there truly a difference?"

"I s'pose there isn't, to a mind like yours," she snipped, firing his own words back at him. "But there is to me. You're being impossible again, V—which I think might just be the thing I missed the least about you while I was gone."

Not knowing what, if anything, to say to that, V fell quiet. Eyes falling away from her accusatory glare, he angled himself away from her. He was more than aware of his faults, needing no reminding—especially from her—of his shortcomings. If this was all that she had returned for...

"Wanna know what I missed most?"

His head jerked up at the sound of her voice, so much closer than it had been only moments before. She had closed the distance between them so quietly that he hadn't even heard her move, standing so close that he could see the tiny flecks of gray hidden in the blue of her eyes. His anger evaporating as quickly as it had ignited, he sighed, shaking his head. "I cannot believe that there could be anything here to which you would have given even a moments thought."

Inwardly, Dara flinched at the self-loathing in his voice. She hadn't come back to torture him anymore than she had to argue with him. She'd come back to help him, to save him—from himself as much as from Creedy and his goons. So far, she was doing a lousy job of it. Allowing her smile to sweeten, she leaned in closer to him, nudging his shoulder with her own. "Don't think like that, V—there were a lot of things I missed about this place."

That gentle and all too fleeting contact, so reminiscent of the way things had been between them before, awoke a yearning within him—a yearning for that easy familiarity that he had missed so very much once it was no longer there. But the guilt of putting her in danger still ran thick in his veins, and instead of leaning toward her, seeking out the haven of her touch, he retreated, twisting his body even further away from her. "Bodily threats, never-ending arguments and nearly perpetual misunderstandings excluded, I'm sure."

Dara's lips pressed together in mild frustration. Impossible man.

"If I didn't know better, V, I'd think you were fishing for compliments. But..." she hurried to add when Fawkes' black-screened eyes shot up to hers and she could practically see the denial on the lips beneath, "...since I _do_ know you well enough to realize that it doesn't even occur to you to expect anything but the absolute worst...I'm gonna tell you what I missed the most, and you're gonna listen, got it?"

So blessedly familiar, the stubborn streak that refused to allow anyone else the last word—it had driven him mad in the past, but God how he had missed it. "You have my attention."

"Good," she erased the distance he had placed between them so quickly that he did not even have time to be startled, though he did flinch instinctively when her hands reached out to clasp his, "because you need to hear this. You need to understand what I mean when I say that, of everything I left behind when I walked out that door, the only thing that I can't do without...is you."

He did not want to hear her, could not allow himself to hear her. V yanked his hands from her grasp and turned away, showing her his back—not to hide himself from her, but to keep her hidden from him. "If that is the case, then you are a fool."

"Oh believe me," Dara said, completely unperturbed by his reaction—she'd expected no less, "I know that. I mean, I know perfectly well that I should hate you for putting my life in danger just so you could preserve your precious peace of mind, probably also for rejecting me so brutally that it _still_ hurts to think about it." She took a step toward him, placing one hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades—hating the tension she felt there. "And if things were different, maybe I could hate you for it. But circumstances being what they are, I can't."

"Circumstances?"

A wry, humorless smile bent her lips. "If didn't love you so bloody much," she clarified, "then maybe I could've hated you. But quite frankly, I love you too much and understand you too well for what happened to change my feelings for you."

Once again, he fought against the feeling of warmth that stole through him at her candid talk of love. "I do not understand you...after all that has occurred...how can you still..."

"Did you like the song I picked out earlier, V?"

It was a jarring interruption, and the subject change was just puzzling enough that V could not help turning around. "What?"

"The song I played earlier," she repeated. "The first one. Did you like it?"

"I confess that I did not pay any particular attention to it," V frowned behind the mask, lost. "It was Metallica, I believe."

"It was," Dara cocked her head, eyes locking on his. "And they'e not your favorite, I know. But that song…" She paused, still watching him closely. "I've always loved that song, but I never truly understood it 'til I met you. I'd like for you to hear the words and really listen to them this time."

He was silent, but the tilt of the mask told her all she needed to know. Moving away from him, she returned to the Wurlitzer and again pressed the combination to call up the song that she had begun to feel could have been written specifically for her—and for him.

As the opening chords flowed through the room, she turned and moved back toward him, her eyes never leaving his. Without either of them saying a word, he opened his arms and she slid into them, settling herself even closer than she had before. They began to sway gently to the music and Dara pressed her temple to his cheek, positioning her lips near his ear.

"So close no matter how far," she half-sang, half-whispered, "couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are, and nothing else matters."

She actually heard the breath catch in is throat, could literally feel the effect the words had on him.

"Never opened myself this way, life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say…and nothing else matters."

Pulling away slightly, she tilted her head up and met his eyes. She had never seen him as still as he was then.

"Trust I seek and I find in you, every day for us something new, open mind for a different view," her voice grew stronger, infused with her love for him. "And nothing else matters."

She paused, but the song carried on. Her voice had cracked on that last line, and while she suspected that she would be shedding more than a few tears by the time the night was over, she was not ready to part with any just yet. In that pause, she found the will to continue in the shape of a tremulous sigh from behind Fawkes' grin—it had been wise to tell him in what was, essentially, poetry. Poetry he understood—while she sometimes suspected that her own words were a foreign language to him.

They had stopped moving, but he had not pulled away. Dara lifted her hand from his shoulder and placed it upon his cheek.

"So close no matter how far." She was not even pretending to sing along with the song now, instead speaking the words directly to him. Willing him to finally—_finally_—understand her. "Couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trust in who we are."

She drew her other hand from his, placing it on his other cheek; cradling his face in her hands. "And nothing else matters."

V's breaths came in harsh starts and stops, his body frozen, his gaze trapped by the impossible blue of her eyes. He knew he should pull away, but he simply could not gather the will to do so. She had ensnared him…

…and she was not finished.

"You were about to ask me how I could possibly still love you," she murmured. "But that's the wrong question, V. The real question is, how could I not still love you? Love isn't easy—I've always known that. And loving you?" she gave a dark chuckle. "Loving you has been hard and it's been painful…"

"Dara..."

"But it's _everything _to me," she interrupted, unwilling to let him speak until she'd said everything that needed saying, "Nothing else matters to me, V. Nothing. And I'm not telling you this because I expect anything from you or because I need to say it. I'm telling you because _you_ need to hear it. After everything you've been through and with this huge task you've got ahead of you tonight, you need to know that there's one person in the world who loves you. Not the revolutionary, not the idea—_you."_

Pausing for a moment to gather herself, she hoped that her speech was having as much effect on V as it was having on her. "So that's why I came back, V." She ran her thumb over his cheek in a quick caress, then dropped her hands back to her sides. "That's why I'm here tonight."

If he had been uncertain of just how unworthy he was of her before, there could no longer be any doubt about it—she may as well have been the moon, so far beneath her did he feel at that moment. At an utter loss for words, he could do nothing but stare at her, wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve such devotion from such a woman.

Chewing on her lip nervously, Dara waited for some sort of response—a word, a look, _anything_. But nothing came; he just stood there, head angled in a way that even she could not read. "Well," she prodded after nearly a minute had passed, "you gonna say anything? I mean, I bare my proverbial soul to you, and this is all I get? A head tilt?"

The hurt in her voice was enough to bring him back to himself. Sighing deeply, he lowered his head, shaking it rather forlornly. "What _can_ I say to that, Dara? What words could ever express the true depths of my gratitude? You have given me a greater gift this night than I could ever have imagined possible. I am unworthy of such passionate devotion, my dear…truly, truly unworthy."

Dara frowned. "Don't say that," she scolded, "because it's not true. You're more than worthy of my love, V, and so much more besides. You're a hero, in case you've forgotten—the European press is already calling you Freedom's Savior, and after tonight, the good people of England will be calling you theirs as well."

Those words, spoken with such quiet surety, were staggering to him. So much confidence she had in him, so much calm certainty that he would succeed—indeed, it sounded as if she had no doubt that he could topple an entire totalitarian regime single-handed. "You astonish me, my dear," he said at last, voice rough with emotion. "Your faith in me…" his voice trailed off, the moment broken by the chiming of the clock in the hall.

Eleven-fifteen…time had run out for them.

Looking down into her upturned face, V retraced lines that were already etched into his memory. She was a Godsend, this woman before him—lending him the last bit of strength that he had needed to see his plan through to the end. The few doubts that he'd harbored were swept away entirely by the strength of her faith in him. He knew with unshakable certainty then that he would succeed. Norsefire would crumble, of that there was no longer any question.

And she…

The beginnings of an idea flitted through his mind, quickly coalescing into the outline of a real plan.

_Yes_, he thought, liking the idea more and more with every second that ticked by. Y_es, this is how it should end. This is as it should be…the only way it can be._

Reaching out, he grabbed her hand, surprising both of them with his forwardness. "It is late," he said quietly, "and I have work to do. But first, I have a gift for you, my dear…a very special gift."

"For me?"

"Indeed. A gift to thank you for all that you've done—not just for me, but for this country and for the people who call it home." He stopped, lifting her hand up and cradling it between both of his. It was the most intimate gesture he had ever offered, and she could not help but suspect that, had the mask not been between them, he would have kissed her palm. "I…cannot imagine what my life would have been this past year, without you in it, Dara Turner."

Speechless, Dara felt the beginnings of tears burn the back of her eyes. If she hadn't known what he was planning to do, that would have been the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. But knowing what she did, all she could think of was that this was his goodbye. Determined not to cry, she swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in her throat. "Ditto," she choked out, not trusting her voice for anything more than those two simple syllables.

"Come," V urged, extending an arm toward the main Gallery door, "your gift awaits."


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Of all the things she had been expecting when he said he had a gift for her…this truly was the last thing she would ever have expected.

"You're giving me…" she paused, puzzled, "…an old tube train?"

V smiled, enjoying being the one to throw her for once. "So it would seem. Does it not meet your approval?"

She was missing something. She knew she was. The question was…what?

"Oh, it's lovely," she assured him, her eyes sketching over the old train again, desperately trying to see what he so clearly meant for her to see. "It's…" she stepped toward it, rested a hand upon the tempered glass of the window nearest her, stared into the shadows within…and finally understood. She turned toward him, eyes wide and hand still pressed to the cool glass of the window. "It's packed full of explosives."

"Yes."

There was plenty of encouragement in that word, but none of the explanation she had expected. The maddening git was going to make her do the work, apparently. She stepped away from the train and stared beyond its nose, tracing the tracks until they disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. "This is for Parliament."

"It is."

"It's brilliant, V." Dara turned back toward him, smiling. "_You're_ brilliant."

Shifting a bit awkwardly beneath the weight of her approval, V shifted his attention away from the naked adoration on her face. "It hardly felt like a brilliant idea when first I imagined it—more a hopeless dream, really. The station was in ruins, the tunnel blocked," he reached out and placed a gloved hand upon the doors of the car beside them, "and the train was in a shocking state of disrepair. It took me ten years to clear the tracks and to lay a bit of my own. Once that was finished, I set to refurbishing the train. And now…"

"And now it's all ready," Dara finished when his voice trailed off, "Now, it's finally gonna happen, just like you said it would and just like I always knew it would." She closed what little distance there had been between them. "But I don't understand why you would call this train a gift for me. It's a gift for every man, woman and child in England."

"No. This train _is _a gift for you, Dara. Because if this train makes its intended journey tonight," V said quietly, "it will only be because _you _have determined that it should."

Dara frowned so hard that it was very nearly painful. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Pulling the door of the car open to reveal a simple control console, V extended his arm, inviting her to step inside. She did, though her eyes stayed focused on him. V stepped in behind her, dropping his hand to brush his fingers across the lever that would send the train on its way. "This is my gift to you," he said softly, the mask tilting slightly toward her. "Everything I have—my home, my books, the Gallery…this train—I am leaving them to you to do with what you will."

Dara's stomach knotted at the resignation in his voice, at the farewell hidden within those words. Despite knowing that he planned to die, the idea that he was willing his entire life over to her was terrifying. "I really don't like what you're implying, V. So please just tell me that you're joking…"

"That I cannot do," he interrupted, lowering his gaze from hers and shaking his head. "No jokes, Dara; no tricks. You will hear only truth from me this night. And the greatest truth I can give you is this, my dear—you made me understand that I was wrong. That the decision to pull this lever," he rested a finger lightly atop the device in question, "is not mine to make."

"Rubbish," Dara spat. "Of course it's your decision to make."

"No." He sighed. "I am a product of the…the wrongness…that has ruled England for too long. I have done all that I could to set things to rights. And indeed, this world which I am a part of and which I have helped to shape will, I hope, end tonight. But tomorrow, a new world will begin—a different world, which different people will shape. Good people. People like you, Dara Turner, who are so very much better than I could ever hope to be. Thus I give this task to you, confident that you, of all people, will make the right decision for the right reasons."

Before she could process what he was saying—before she could fully digest the full import of his words, he was gone. Heart pounding thunderously in her ears, Dara lurched forward, flinging herself out of the car and onto the platform behind him. "V! No! Don't go."

He stopped, but he did not look back, only half-turning his head back toward her. "I must, Dara. The time has come for me to meet my maker, and to repay him in kind for all that he's done."

And there it was, the moment of truth—the moment she knew for certain that the information she'd received was accurate. He was off to meet Creedy and see to Sutler.

When he took another step forward, she sprung into action, racing after him. "V! Wait!"

Again, he stopped; but again, he did not turn.

Having none of that, Dara wrapped her fingers around his bicep, yanking him around to face her. "Don't do this," she begged, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his sleeve. She would not let him go without a fight, but she knew she needed to keep her arguments carefully vague. Knowing him as she did, she had no doubt that he would go to great lengths to stop her—would likely even resort to incapacitating her—should she outright tell him that she not only knew of his plans, but fully intended to foil them. "Let it go. Right here and right now, just let it go. We can send the train off now and then just walk away...together."

Dipping his chin, V angled his face away from her, unable to meet her eyes. "No—I have no illusions. I know what I am; just as I know what I deserve. This is no film, my dear. There is no tree waiting for me, no happy ending. All I want—all I _deserve_—is waiting at the end of this tunnel."

"No!" Dara surged forward, holding tight to his arm as she pressed herself against him, molding the line of her body to his. Face tilted up, she pressed her free hand flat against the curve of his cheek, eyes staring hard through the black-screened slits that hid him from her. "That's not true, V. You know that's not true."

Her eyes slid shut, the brilliant blue disappearing behind pale skin and sooty lashes, and V's eyes narrowed, puzzled. His confusion was short lived though and melted into paralyzing shock at the first, delicate touch of her lips to the mask. The warmth of her breath as it whispered through the slit-like mouth was softer than silk against his lips, and V reflexively inhaled, swallowing the breath that would have been his had the mask not stood between them.

Without conscious volition, his hands fell to her waist, gloved fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise, clinging to her desperately as the rest of the world crumbled away beneath his feet. And to his utter amazement, a stab of annoyance at the mask cut through his muddled thoughts, and he knew a sudden and all-consuming desire to rip it away so that he might kiss her properly. It was a nearly irresistible inclination that he was only just able to hold in check, and then only by forcing himself to remember the repugnant reality that rendered such a possibility unthinkable.

When she finally pulled away from the kiss, she leaned back only far enough to again seek his eyes through the mask, fingers unconsciously stroking the cool metal of Fawkes' cheek with the same tenderness that she would have the living flesh hidden beneath. "You want a tree, V? I'll plant you a bloody forest. You want a happy ending? I'll write you the happiest, sappiest, most sickly sweet bleeding ending the world's ever seen. Just...don't go. Stay with me and I swear, if you want them, they're all yours."

Closing his eyes, he savored those words, allowing them to pour through him—a healing balm to his wounded soul. And oh, how he wanted what she was offering; wanted it so fervently that the yearning was a physical ache in his chest.

But—no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how tempting her offer—he had to finish what he had started. He could not walk away now, not with his ultimate vengeance so very, very close. He had fought too long and too hard to turn his back now. He permitted himself another few seconds to enjoy the feel of her locked so tightly against him as well as the look of pure, unfettered love she was bestowing upon him.

But finally, with a deep sigh, he tilted his face downwards sadly. "Dara…," he breathed her name, the word barely audible—strained beneath an ocean of hopeless longing. He allowed one final moment to savor the all too tempting vision of the future that she had mapped out for him before blowing out a long, slow breath. "Goodbye."

He pulled away from her completely with that, immediately turning on his heel and leaping down onto the tracks, following them in the opposite direction of the train. Dara watched him go, eyes following him until he had disappeared entirely into the darkness of the tunnels beyond the station. Waiting another moment, she blew out a fortifying breath of her own.

She hadn't actually expected that she would be able to stop him—though a small part of her had hoped that the promise of a life with her would be enticement enough to do just that. Foolish, but unavoidable, that secret wish made his departure less a shock than a disappointment. But just like him, she had work to do.

Leaping down onto the tracks after him, she stared for a long, hard moment down the tunnel he'd disappeared into. But she did not follow, instead making her way toward the iron rungs of the old service ladder bolted into the concrete on the other side of the tracks.

She clambered up, shouldered her way past the cover that blocked her way and pulled herself up into the middle of a very quiet and very empty Victoria Street. The second her feet hit the pavement, she was running, and she kept running until she reached Westminster Cathedral. She ducked into the walkway between two of the shops directly across the street from the church, paused for a moment to catch her breath, and then let out a high, sharp whistle.

Instantly, an engine roared to life and within moments, Will had brought his motorbike to a skidding halt beside her. He flipped the shield up on his own helmet before reaching behind him to collect the spare helmet and offer it to her. "Ready to tell me where we're off to now?"

Still breathing hard from her run, Dara frowned and knocked the helmet from his hand to the ground. "No time for that," she bit out, pinning him with an unflinching gaze. "And you're not coming with me. I told you that."

Will shook his head stubbornly. "I refuse to let you…"

She struck without warning, delivering a right hook that carried the full force of her haste behind it. Will fell backwards off the bike with a shout, his thankfully helmeted head bouncing off the concrete even as his hands flew up to cradle his—in all likelihood, broken—nose.

Dara leapt onto the bike, staring down at Will without even a trace of remorse. "I'll apologize later," she assured him, ignoring the death glare he was sending up at her, "when I have the time to actually mean it."

She kicked the bike in gear, revving the engine and leaving tire tracks in her wake as she sped off toward Charing Cross station.


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

It was all happening just as he had intended it to.

As V watched Creedy's figure descending the stairs, he felt a near perfect sense of calm come upon him. Yes, for once, everything was going exactly as planned. After so many near disasters over the course of the past year, the Fates had picked the perfect moment to smile upon him, unworthy though he might be.

It was a heartening thought and he was surprised to feel his lips curve into a smile nearly as wide as Fawkes'.

At the bottom of the stairs, Creedy stopped. His eyes immediately sought and found V's in the sickly fluorescence of the lights that had been hastily wired for this very occasion. Crossing his arms over his chest, he directed a sneer toward his adversary. "So you're _actually_ here."

"Indeed."

Creedy's expression turned even nastier. "Didn't think you'd have the stones, for all your big talk."

The words, the tone, the look—all were exceedingly goading. That it was the other man's plan to render him reckless by inciting his anger, V had no doubt. Unfortunately for Creedy, V found the attempt more entertaining than provoking.

"As you see, Mr. Creedy, I have kept my part of the bargain." His grin widened, though none but himself could share in his amusement. "As such, my…stones, as you so charmingly put it, are beyond reproof. The question is…what of your own?"

Unbidden—though hardly unwelcome—an image of Dara flashed into his mind, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. _Only you, _she snarked at him, blue eyes dancing. _Only you would use the phrase 'beyond reproof' in the middle of a bloody pissing contest._

Creedy's expression sharpened into one of vicious self-satisfaction. "No question about that, mate." He lifted his arm, gesturing sharply and there came immediately the sounds of shuffling and footsteps from the top of the stairs behind him. "No question about that at all."

A moment later, Creedy's men poured down the stairs, two of them dragging a black-bagged and whimpering Adam Sutler between them. The bulk of the men fanned out around the periphery of the alcove, flanking their boss with guns drawn and at the ready. The two supporting Sutler moved into the space between Creedy and V, depositing him unceremoniously onto the concrete before removing the hood and retreating back to join their compatriots.

"Chancellor Sutler," V moved forward, closing the distance between them, "how very good of you to come."

To say that it was satisfying to see a bound and gagged Sutler sniveling on his knees would have been a gross understatement. To V, the image of the High Chancellor, bloodied and terrified, was one of the sweetest he had ever seen. Rembrandt and Renoir had their charms...but this...this was a true masterpiece.

"I have been anticipating this meeting for a very long time. As such, I have something for you." He dropped to one knee beside Sutler, drew a Scarlet Carson from beneath his cloak and presented it to Sutler with a flourish. "A rose of remembrance, Chancellor. For of all the things you have done, for all the things you might have done," he paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was very, very cold, "and for the only thing you have left to do."

He tucked the rose neatly into the Chancellor's lapel, entirely unmoved by the garbled sounds of pleading issuing from behind the gag. "Goodbye, Chancellor."

Righting himself, he backed away. "Mr. Creedy..."

Now outright sobbing and fighting against his restraints with impressive—if futile—zeal, Sutler's head whipped around at the ominous and unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking. Creedy pressed the cold steel of his sidearm to Sutler's forehead, brow knit with distaste. "Disgusting," he spat.

A single shot echoed throughout the tunnel and V felt suddenly lighter, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Breathing out a long, slow breath, he closed his eyes and relished the moment while it lasted.

Which was not, unfortunately, very long.

"There's one situation dealt with," Creedy's voice rang out through the silence, as derisive as ever. "Now for the next. I think it's time we had a look at your face." The pistol that had been lowered to his side after Sutler fell lifted again, this time pointed directly at V. "Take off the mask."

How very predictable.

V brought his hands to rest against his belt, fingers dancing meaningfully across the daggers sheathed there. He very carefully did not acknowledge the two men who had moved to flank him. "No."

"Yeah, thought you'd say that." Creedy jerked his head once in V's direction and the two men advanced from their rear position, one reaching out toward the mask.

Before either of them could lay a finger on him, V struck. And just as quickly, he was facing Creedy again, blades re-sheathed and looking so utterly calm that one would never suspect that he had just flayed two men alive.

A haughty smile curved Creedy's lips. "Defiant still. I like that. Breath of fresh air, and all that rot. Certainly not like him," he toed Sutler's body contemptuously, "You're not afraid of death." His grin widened. "You're like me."

V had never heard a more distasteful comparison. "The only thing that you and I have in common, Mr. Creedy, is that we are both about to die."

Snorting out a laugh, Creedy shook his head. "Really?" He glanced pointedly around at his remaining men, guns all trained unerringly on V. "And how do you imagine that's gonna happen?"

Beneath the mask, V smiled a truly vicious smile. "With my hands around your neck."

Something about the way he said it, the conviction and surety in his tone, finally got to Creedy. The confident exterior cracked, the first bloom of real fear showing itself on his face. It was covered up quickly enough by even more bravado. "Bollocks!" He motioned around the tunnel. "We've swept this place. You've got nothing! Nothing but your bloody knives and your fancy karate tricks. We've got _guns_!"

"No, Mr. Creedy, what you have are bullets," V corrected, readying himself for the inevitable, "and the hope that when your guns are empty of them, I'm no longer standing. Because if I _am_..." the mask dipped, his voice dropping dangerously, "you'll all be dead before you've reloaded."

Chuckling, though his confidence was clearly shaken, Creedy shook his head. "That's impossible, but it's an interesting theory, I'll admit." He lifted his gun again. "Let's test it, shall we?"

"Better idea—let's not and say we did," a new voice rang out, and Creedy let out a gasp as an arm slid around one of his, yanking it back and behind him in a vice-like grip—but it was the cold, sharp steel of the dagger that materialized at his throat that really got his attention. He was pulled back and down slightly, a distinctly feminine voice hissing into his ear. "Forgot about me, didn't you, old man?"

Across the tunnel, every muscle in V's body went rigid. A thousand different questions tore through him, not least of which being, _how did she know? _But more than anything else, more than the how or the why—it was the _what_ that screamed the loudest at him.

_What_ was she doing? What the _hell_ was she doing? "Dara!"

Bright blue eyes met his across the distance, and the intensity that burned out of them stole the words from his tongue. "Not a word, V," she barked. "Not a single bloody word out of you—not now." She pushed the dagger a little harder into Creedy's neck. "However, now does seem like the perfect time for all you nice lads to drop your guns—rifles _and_ sidearms, if you please."

No one moved and she jerked Creedy's arm hard enough to elicit a grunt of pain. "Course, if you _want_ me to slit his throat, then by all means, do as you please."

Still no one moved.

"If you don't wanna die, mate," she growled into Creedy's ear, "I'd recommend you tell your boys what's what." She pressed harder with the blade; hard enough to break the skin. "'Coz I've got absolutely no qualms about taking your entire fucking head off."

"Put 'em down," Creedy choked out, panicked by the sticky warmth dripping down his neck, "drop 'em…now…"

It was disgusting to see how well programmed his men were—the second the command was given, it was obeyed without question or hesitation. Six high powered rifles were tossed to the ground, followed almost immediately by six identical .45 caliber, semi-auto pistols. "Excellent work, lads," Dara said, keeping a tight grip on her hostage. "Now get out—and make it quick, yeah?"

A pause. Another wrench of Creedy's arm.

"Go," Creedy hissed, feeling the knife press even harder into his flesh. "Get the bloody hell outta here!"

And they did, all six men filing silently past their boss and up the stairs. Dara watched them go, giving absolutely no hint that she had seen the quick wink directed her way by one of the retreating men. It was good to see Alex though—his help was going to be particularly appreciated, as she was hardly fool enough to believe that Creedy's men would abandon him without a fight. They would be back—and that was something she could not allow.

Once they were out of sight, she let go of the arm she'd had twisted behind Creedy's back, careful to keep the full pressure of the knife at his throat to keep him from moving. She snapped her now free hand down and wrapped her fingers around the barrel of his pistol.

"I'll take that, thanks," she said as she tore the weapon from his grasp. "Not like you'll be needing it anymore."

"You think you're so smart, don't you, girl? Think you're so sodding clever." Creedy craned his neck around, trying to catch a glimpse of her. "But you'll be sorry in the end, you will. My men..."

"Oh shut it," Dara cut in, rolling her eyes even as she gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling onto the concrete beside Sutler's corpse. "You're men aren't gonna save you."

"They'll be back," Creedy bit out, glaring at her. "They'll..."

"Be dead," Dara gave him a feral smile. "Just like you." She ejected the magazine from the gun, checked that it was loaded and ready to go, then knocked it back into place and shifted the safety off. She might be crap at aiming from a distance, but at close quarters, the .45 would be a welcome addition to her arsenal. "Be back in a bit, luv," she said, tossing V a grin. "Don't torture him too bad, yeah?"

"Dara…you cannot mean..."

"Oh, all right," Dara cut him off, deliberately misunderstanding the concern in his voice. "S'pose that'd be asking too much, wouldn't it? Go on then, luv," she shifted her gaze to Creedy's, smirking, "make it hurt."

"No...Dara…wait…"

"Can't talk—Fingermen to kill and all that. Be back when I can." With one last smile and wave, she spun on her heel and sprinted back the way she'd come, disappearing up the stairs.

In the silence that fell once she'd gone, V could actually hear the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears.

Foolish, stupid, reckless...

The words tumbled about in his mind, anger making them burn. Foolish, stupid, reckless woman—she had put herself in far too much danger already, and now, she was running headfirst into it once again. He had every confidence in her abilities, but the idea of leaving her to fight six men on her own...

"Fucking bitch," Creedy muttered, viciously swiping at the blood oozing from the wound in his neck. "Hope they put a bullet between her eyes."

V closed the distance between them in a blur of black. Tearing Creedy up from his knees and slamming him against the nearest wall, he wrapped one black gloved hand around Creedy's neck. "It would behoove you to curb your tongue, Mr. Creedy."

"You don't scare me," Creedy spat, lips curling in a decidedly nasty sneer. "I know who you are. More than that, I know who you _were_. You were..."

"Who I was is immaterial." The hand clamped around Creedy's throat tightened, squeezing with only a fraction of its true strength. "Who I am is justice...and this is an appointment that was set for you long ago."

"You're...no...hero," Creedy gasped with what little air he had. "You're...no better...than me. Hell's...waitin'...for you too. Should've...sent you there...m'self...when...I had...the chance..."

"Yes," V agreed almost reasonably, "I daresay you should have." A second hand joined the first, and Creedy was lifted off his feet, eyes widening in sudden fear as his air was choked off altogether, panic beginning to set in.

Ignoring Creedy's flailing, V continued to squeeze harder and then harder still. He had always thought that this would be the reckoning that he would enjoy the most, but he found no satisfaction in the terror blackening Creedy's eyes or the spasms of his oxygen-starved limbs.

Feeling incongruously detached from the whole thing, V tightened his grip as hard as he could, the bones beneath his fingers finally giving way with a dull snap. Creedy went limp, eyes rolling back into his head. Releasing his burden, V stepped away, allowing Creedy's body to fall to the ground.

The world around him had gone strangely and suddenly out of focus, and he felt curiously lethargic as his eyes drifted back and forth between Sutler and Creedy's corpses. Distantly, he recognized that this was a moment for celebration—of sweet, glorious triumph.

Unfortunately, he wasn't feeling particularly triumphant.

This was not how it was supposed to have happened.

This was not how it was supposed to have happened at all. His plan had been executed to perfection, every detail had unfolded precisely according to his painstakingly crafted design…save for one glaring deviation.

He was still alive.

He had never, even for a moment, imagined that he would live past this night. Indeed, save for one large Dara-shaped regret, he had welcomed his fate. His purpose had been fulfilled, his reason for being brought to a stunningly perfect fruition.

But now...

For twenty years, he had lived each day secure in the knowledge of what lay ahead of him. But now, he stood at the edge of the unknown, staring out into an uncharted future with no discernible path in sight. And the perspective was dizzying, daunting...and utterly terrifying.

Seconds ticked past, turning into minutes. The minutes turned into a quarter of an hour, but still, V stood there, staring down at the two corpses at his feet without really seeing either of them.

"Once we've sent that bloody train off and this whole thing is well and truly done," a sharp voice cut across the silence, drawing both his eyes and his attention—he must have been standing there, lost in the twisting nether of his thoughts for some time, "I'm gonna kick your self-sacrificing arse into next week."

She was a sight to behold—snarled strands of raven hair trailed around her face, blood from a split lip and swiftly purpling nose stained her pale skin red. A swift spike of mingled relief and concern flared up within him, but was gone nearly as soon as it had arrived, swallowed whole by a haze of apathy that rapidly condensed into a fog so thick that he lost himself within it entirely.

He was…_lost_. So very…very…lost…


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Dara's patience was running very, very thin. She was tired and she hurt and she was furious and it was taking every shred of self-control that she possessed not to slap that blasted mask off his blasted face.

"Well come on then! Don't just stand there—let's get a move on, yeah? Parliament's not gonna blow itself up, is it?"

When all he did was stand there, silent and unmoving, it finally occurred to Dara that something was wrong. Her anger was instantly forgotten and every ache and pain she felt disappeared beneath a thick wave of concern. She took a tentative step toward him, apprehension creasing her face. "V? You ok?"

More silence met her inquiry and her frown deepened. She limped across the distance between them, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Can you hear me, luv?"

She was somewhat comforted when the mask angled toward her, but his continued silence still made her uneasy. "We can't stay here," she said gently. "We've gotta get back to the train…remember, V? The train? There's a few hundred thousand people up there waiting for the fireworks you promised—can't disappoint them, can we?"

Still nothing. Dara huffed out a breath of frustration. As much as she wanted to figure out what was wrong with him, there simply wasn't time. She would sort him once the train had left the station; until then, she was going to have to deal with him as he was.

Stepping backwards, she slid her fingers down his arm and clasped his hand tightly within her own. "Come on, luv…come with me," she urged, giving him a firm tug. "We've got places to go and historical landmarks to blow up."

To her relief, he took a single, halting step forward. Another step backwards, another tug, and he took another step, and then another, until finally, he was matching every step she took with one of his own.

It was a strange walk back to the station, and nothing at all like she'd imagined it would be. Far quieter for one—she'd fully intended to be reaming him up one side and down the other; to finally be able to say all the things that had been clawing at her insides from the moment she'd discovered what he planned to do. But with him nearly catatonic, that wasn't exactly an option. So instead of angry recriminations, she filled the almost oppressive silence with random and entirely superfluous chatter.

It served a dual purpose, that idle prattle.

On one hand, she hoped that her carefully pitched words would draw him back to himself. On the other, it was downright disturbing to see him in such a state. This was the most supremely independent man that she had ever known and to see him reduced to following along like an obedient child was, quite simply, wrong. Talking helped to keep her discomfort at bay.

The walk felt like it took forever, but finally, the station and the train came into view and Dara breathed a sigh of relief. She led him up onto the platform, bringing him to a halt at the door of the train. Turning him toward her, she released his hand and stepped in closer to him, reaching up to cup both sides of the mask between her palms and drawing his face close to hers.

"I know you're in there, V, and I need you to listen to me. This train has a very important appointment to keep, and I have no intention of being the one to make sure it keeps it." She pulled back slightly, drawing him with her to stand just inside the car, stopping beside the console. Dropping one hand, she grabbed one of his and placed it on the control panel. "I don't care what you said earlier—this is for you to do, V. Not me, not anyone else—you. You're not yourself right now, and that's fine. Whatever's wrong, we'll get it sorted soon enough…but right now, you need to snap out of it just a little bit, luv. You need to pull this lever."

He must have heard her, because the mask tilted away, angling toward the console and she could feel the weight of his gaze shift away from her. Following his look, she breathed out a deep sigh when his fingers twitched, the creak of leather music to her ears as he slowly wrapped his fingers around the lever.

A moment later, they were back on the platform, she having yanked him hastily from the train as the engine powered up. They stood shoulder to shoulder, his hand clasped tightly in hers, as the train began its journey, swiftly gaining speed as it left the station and headed along the tracks toward Parliament.

Once it was out of sight, Dara turned to V again, studying his still form intently. "It's done," she murmured coaxingly, giving his hand a squeeze. "You did it, luv. Just like I knew you would. Right from the start, I knew you'd do it."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

"Bugger," she muttered. "Y'know, you're making this very difficult, V."

She would have liked nothing more than to take him back to the Gallery, sit him down, and start trying anything and everything she could think of to pull him out of the state he'd fallen into, but there was still one more thing she had to do first—one more thing _he _had to do first—and she was going to need roof access to do it. Again tugging him along after her, she made her way through the tunnels that lead back toward the Gallery.

There was an old service lift down one of the side passages that V had fixed up months ago. He'd claimed, at the time, that it was merely on the off chance that it would prove useful one day. She'd been rather more inclined to believe that he'd just wanted something to tinker with.

Seems he had more foresight than she'd given him credit for at the time—it was certainly coming in handy at that moment. Because there was no way in hell she was going to miss the show. And more importantly, there was no way in hell she was going to let _him_ miss it.

The first thing she noticed when she stepped out onto the roof was that it was quite cold. The second was just how crisply clear the night was. Good thing, that…it would make for a much more spectacular display.

She brought them to a halt at the edge of the roof, the London skyline darker than usual, but still beautiful. There was nothing left to do now but wait, and Dara loosened her hold on his hand—an action that was as unsuccessful as it was short-lived. V's grip tightened painfully around her fingers at the first sign of her retreat, keeping her hand firmly within his own.

Glancing down to study their entwined fingers, Dara brought her other hand up and placed it overtop his. "Right," she said quietly, shifting her gaze up to his profile—his face was still pointed out toward the city, "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere, luv. I promise."

His grip loosened, but only marginally, his fingers still holding tight to hers.

When the music started, she couldn't help but smile, immediately transported back a year to the first night that had found her on a rooftop with this man, listening to this very tune. Moving in closer to him, she laid her head against his shoulder and rubbed her cheek against the softness of his cloak. "And now," she whispered into the darkness, pulling his words from one year ago from her memory and giving them to this Fifth, just as he had given them to the one before, "it's here." She held him even tighter. "The crescendo."

The first bombs exploded only seconds later, lighting up the sky and shattering the stillness of the night. There was a savage beauty to the scene; a stark perfection that made Dara shiver. Pressing herself even closer to V, she watched in awed wonder as the fires burned ever higher and the fireworks began, streaks of incandescence branding the sky above the inferno.

It was so much like the year before and yet so very different at the same time. Last year, it had been breathtaking, but she had only possessed a tenuous understanding of what it all meant. This year, she not only thoroughly understood the meaning behind the act, she embraced it. More than any of the thousands upon thousands of black cloaked citizens lining the streets of London, she understood what this revolution was truly about and why it had been necessary.

She also understood just how immense a debt England owed to the man beside her—the man who was finally, for the first time in twenty years, free.

"It's over," she murmured, a tremulous smile bending her lips. "It's really, finally over."

That softly spoken declaration had a far greater effect than she anticipated. At the last word, V's entire body began to tremble violently. Dara, losing all interest in the pyrotechnic display still illuminating the sky above them, focused all her attention on him, barely able to hear the explosions through the sound of her own heart thrumming in her ears.

"V? What is it? What's wrong?"

The trembling only increased, his breath coming in ever quicker gasps from beneath the mask.

"Goddamn it, V...talk to me! Tell me what's wrong." Dara slid around in front of him, sliding her free hand over his shoulders, his chest, searching for some physical source for the state he was in. Was he injured? Had he been in pain all this time and she'd missed it? "Are you hurt? Tell me...please, V!"

She was growing more frantic with every moment that passed, until finally she tried to tear her hand from his in her desperation to discover what was wrong with him. _That_ spurred him to action, his grip tightening so much that Dara cried out in pain—a cry that was cut short when she was engulfed in a fierce embrace, his head burrowing deep into the curve of her neck.

She froze, arms hanging limply at her sides, completely at a loss. But when the first muffled sob reached her ears—when she felt the warmth of the first hiccupping breath against her skin—her momentary paralysis evaporated. Wrapping her arms around him and turning her face into him, she returned his embrace with every part of her body that she could.

"It's all right," she hummed against his ear, "it's all right, luv. I've got you. Let it out…let it go..."

As if that gentle encouragement was what he had been waiting for, V's entire body sagged against her, his legs buckling as the strength that had sustained him through twenty years of struggle and pain gave way before the tidal wave of emotion that had been held in check for equally as long.

She was strong, but after the beating her muscles had taken that night, she knew she wasn't strong enough to hold him up. So when he began to fall, she went with him. They landed in a heap on the rooftop, and Dara winced, having twisted them as they fell so that she would take the brunt of the impact. V hardly seemed to notice the change, still clinging to her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Ignoring her own discomfort, Dara continued to hold him, whispering bits and pieces of nonsense in his ear, trying to soothe him as best she could. Her hands traced circles across his back, drifting up and down, carefully leaving no inch without its share of comfort.

How long they sat like that, she had no idea, but eventually, his sobs abated. And finally, long after the sky had again gone dark, he pulled away from her, turning away so that Fawkes' sharp profile was all she could see of his face.

"Forgive me," he murmured, his voice raw and thin, pain and embarrassment drawn in every line of his body. "I should not have..."

Leaning forward, ignoring the dull ache that had settled into her muscles from so long spent curled around him, Dara placed a finger against the mouth of the mask to silence him. "Yes, you should've," she corrected. "And don't you dare apologize for it."

Clasping her fingers in his, V drew her hand from his face with a deep sigh, turning to look at her. "My dear, you cannot..."

His words died away in a hiss. Leaning forward, he grabbed her chin between two extraordinarily gentle fingers, tilting her face further toward the single light that illuminated the rooftop. Vaguely, he recalled noticing the injuries that glared out at him, and self-reproach bubbled up from within, nearly choking in its intensity.

Frowning at the sudden tension radiating from him, Dara tried to pull her chin from his grasp. "It's nothing, V. Just a few bumps and bruises…"

A gloved finger pressed feather-light against her lips, silencing her in the same way she had him. "If I am not permitted to apologize for my...lapse of self control," he said, taking minor refuge in euphemism, "then you are not permitted to dismiss these wounds—they are hardly mere bumps and bruises, Dara."

Still trying to shrug him off, Dara scooted backwards away from him. "Oh please, I've had worse than this before. A split lip and a banged up nose aren't…"

"Banged up does not even begin to describe the injury to your nose. It is broken if it is anything."

She bristled at both the interruption and the sharpness of his tone. "There're a lot more important things to worry about right now than…"

"Do not be foolish," V snapped, reaching out with both hands now to cradle her face in his palms, completely ignoring her squirming attempts at escape. "If your nose is broken, then it must be set, lest it heal incorrectly. And your lip is more than split—in fact, I fear it may well require stitches."

Slapping his hands away, Dara launched herself to her feet. "I'm _fine_, V. Stop fussing over me like a mother hen. We've got more important things to talk about than…"

"And we shall talk about them," he interrupted yet again, also on his feet. "But there is nothing so important for us to discuss that it cannot wait until after I have seen to your injuries."

Absolutely fuming from his constant interruptions, Dara balled her hands into fists at her sides, all softer feelings completely forgotten in the face of his nagging. "You interrupt me one more time, V, and I'll toss you off the bloody roof."

"If you would listen to sense, I would not need to interrupt you," V retorted.

"If you weren't so bloody pushy, maybe I'd listen."

Opening his mouth to respond, V stopped before anything further was added to the argument. "My dear," he said softly, "this argument is counterproductive. I have already agreed with you that there are a great many things that must be discussed. But I simply cannot engage in any serious conversation with you while you look as you do. My conscience simply will not allow it. I beg of you—allow me to see to your wounds, and then I assure you that you shall be afforded the opportunity to say anything and everything that you so desire."

Still dubious—she knew how skilled he was at weaseling his way out of conversations he didn't want to have—Dara nevertheless felt her resolve weakening. Narrowing her eyes at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's a promise, then?"

"It is indeed," he replied without the slightest hesitation.

Mildly surprised, Dara cocked her head to the side, studying him intently. "I actually think you mean that."

"My dear," V said, the words infused with more affection than he had ever permitted them to be before, "please do believe me when I say that I am as eager as you are to discuss what happened tonight." He closed the distance between them, placing one gloved hand against her cheek and leaning toward her purposefully. "You are not the only one with questions to ask, Dara—or with things to say."

Her ability to respond stolen almost entirely away by the intimacy of the gesture, Dara could only nod her head. Something had changed; that much was glaringly obvious. The implications of his forwardness set every nerve in her body tingling.

Taking her nod as the agreement that it was, V smiled. Lowering his hand from her face, he offered her his arm. "Now come, my dear, let's go home."


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: Only one more chapter to go. I hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

"Ow!"

Dara jerked away from him, glaring at the cloth he had dabbed against her split lip. "That bloody well hurt—what is that stuff?"

"It is merely an antibacterial solution," V shrugged, leaning in farther to close the small gap her wiggling had put between them. "Now do stop squirming and allow me to finish cleaning this wound."

"But it stings," Dara whined, craning her head farther away and eyeing the advancing cloth balefully. "Don't you have anything that doesn't sting?

"You, Dara Turner, are without question the oddest woman alive," V chided. "You would fight your way through an army without hesitation or complaint—but when faced with a few dabs of antiseptic, you cower against the sofa cushions like a recalcitrant child."

"Well, it _stings_," Dara repeated petulantly.

"I have treated several of your injuries in the past with this very solution," V said, beginning to lose patience, "and never once did you act as you are now. If this is an attempt at humor, I find it sadly lacking, my dear."

"I'm not trying to be funny—I'm being honest. Always hated this stuff, I just never said anything about it before."

Behind the mask, V frowned, pulling his hand back. "Whyever not?"

A small shrug, punctuated by an embarrassed half-grin. "You're gonna think I'm ridiculous."

"I already think you are ridiculous."

"Thanks ever so," Dara snipped. "See if I can be bothered next time your arse needs saving."

They were both silent for several long, drawn out seconds after that—the air between them heavy with the unsaid. It was V who made the first move to break the pregnant hush. "You were going to tell me why it is that you never complained about this," he lifted the bottle of antiseptic and jiggled it slightly, "before."

To his surprise, her cheeks colored and she glanced away. "You couldn't have just let it go, could you?"

V grinned at her discomfort. "I could not—it is rare indeed that I have the opportunity to discompose you, and I intend to take full advantage of the situation. Particularly as it is appears humiliating enough to have made you blush."

Lifting both hands to press against her cheeks self-consciously, Dara's eyes widened in true mortification. "I'm blushing?"

Enchanted by the utter horror peeking out from behind those words, V leaned forward and plucked her fingers away from her delightfully flushed skin. "You are indeed, my dear…though I should not suffer further because of it if I were you. It becomes you, Dara."

"It's embarassing," she argued.

Pressing her hands together between his, V leaned in toward her, setting his eyes level with hers. "It is charming," he corrected, his voice light but unmistakably sincere, "and keenly so. But then, I have rarely found you to be anything else."

That, if she was not mistaken, had been a compliment; a frank and open compliment that very nearly took her breath away. She had no doubt that V found her attractive—the months of living with him in the Gallery had provided ample proof of that. But he had never been so candid about it, his admiration always before expressed in sidelong glances and read-between-the-lines ambiguities.

Not knowing what to say, she dropped her gaze from his, more than a little uncomfortable beneath the bluntness of the look she could feel if not see. If he didn't stop looking at her like that—all quiet intensity and unguarded affection—she knew she was going to do something supremely stupid. Like throwing all caution to the wind and flinging herself at him.

"I never wanted you to think I was weak," she blurted out, the words sharp and more than a little desperate.

She could almost see his brow crease beneath Fawkes' grin. As it was, he leaned backwards, clearly taken aback by her admission. "What?"

"That's why I never said anything about it before," Dara clarified, jerking her chin toward the bottle in his hand, letting her eyes slide away from his. "Didn't want you to think I was weak."

Of all the reactions she could have expected from him, the one she got was, at the same time, the most surprising and the most encouraging. His sharp bark of laughter—true, surprised and more than a little affectionate—eased her chagrin and warmed her insides.

"I withdraw my earlier contention," V said after a moment, shaking his head, the black pageboy shifting back and forth along the stark whiteness of his jaw and cheek, "you are not the oddest woman alive—you are the oddest woman to ever draw breath in this or any possible world. Think you weak? Dara…you are many, many things; indeed, I believe I could spend the rest of my lifetime cataloging adjectives to describe you. But I assure you, most wholeheartedly that the word weak could never, even in jest, be applicable to you."

There was a buoyancy to his tone that she had never heard before and it made her smile. "Well look at you. Don't think I've ever seen you so..." she searched for the right word, finding that, for once, the simplest truly was the best, "...happy."

"Happy?" V laughed again. "I am not happy, Dara. I am alive!"

"Who are you," Dara breathed, in awe of this new, seemingly lighthearted version of a man who had only a few short hours ago been shrouded in shadows and solemnity, "and what've you done with V?"

"I am the man who survived the vendetta," he said, quieter and more sober than he had been only moments before, but still warmer than he had ever been. "I am the man who survived the idea."

Oh...that was promising. So very, very promising. "V…"

A gloved hand lifted, asking for silence with a gesture. "Please, Dara…allow me to finish." Off her mute nod, he continued. "I am the man who remains; the man who might have been and very nearly was lost entirely—but for you." Sucking in a deep breath, fortifying himself for the words that would be a revelation, if only she heard them properly. "The Count is dead," he said in a whisper. "I am Edmund Dantes, my dearest Mercedes."

It was, quite possibly, the most perfect declaration of both his feelings and his intentions that she could have hoped for. Meaningful, metaphorical and melodramatic—a speech that would have sounded ridiculous coming from anyone else somehow managed to sound nothing but _right_ from him. Dara's spirits soared; exhilaration, joy and her intense love for him combining in an emotional cocktail that left her feeling more than a little giddy.

Grinning with pure, unbridled delight, she finally gave in to the desire that had been eating at her for so long. Surging forward, she flung her arms around him, taking him entirely by surprise and nearly sending both of them toppling to the floor.

V recovered his balance quickly enough, arms automatically closing around her as he shifted their weight to keep them both upright. For a split second, the old and all too familiar terror clawed at his insides, the nearness of her throwing him dangerously close to panic.

And then...she laughed.

Joyous and effervescent, rich with love such as he had never dreamed might be his, the glorious peal of her laughter was almost painfully beautiful to him.

"I always did like Dantes best," she whispered against his ear just before she tilted her head downward and pressed her lips softly against his fabric-covered neck, branding him.

_Oh..._

His arms tightened around her convulsively, panic and fear both now long forgotten. He bent his head to the side, unconsciously allowing her greater access even as he tightened his arms around her. Yet again, she had managed to save him from himself; a talent at which she was becoming singularly adept. Troubling, that—he already owed her more than could conceivably be repaid over the course of this lifetime; if things continued as they were, he would find himself indebted to her well into the eternity that followed.

He smiled beneath the mask, pressing her even tighter against him and reveling in the feel of her sweet weight in his embrace, glutting himself on the tantalizing scent of lavender and vanilla that had long ago become the very essence of her in his mind.

Beholden to this woman for perpetuity? He could think of worse fates.

"My dearest Dara," he murmured, eyes sliding shut in sheer, perfect contentment. "How could I have ever imagined a more perfect refuge from the world than I have found in you? Oh my dear, had I but known that the haven of your embrace awaited me, I should never have been satisfied with the borrowed pleasure of Dantes' tree."

_There is no tree waiting for me, no happy ending. All I want—all I deserve—is waiting at the end of this tunnel._

His words from only hours before. Words that had broken her heart to hear. The memory of them though, coupled with everything that had come after, did not have the same effect.

Anger. Swift, furious anger shot through her veins, sweeping away every soft, tender feeling she'd been reveling in since throwing herself into his arms.

The change must have been as pronounced physically as mentally because V's entire body stiffened, his arms dropping away from her as he pulled back far enough to look into her face. "Dara...what is the matter? What have I said...?"

"You," she snapped, lifting a finger and poking it hard into his chest, "are a _bastard_!"

V almost seemed to fold in on himself, his entire body arching away from her both her words and her accusatory jabs. For once though, she was blessedly immune to his reaction, ignoring his obvious pain with barely a stab of guilt.

"Forgive me," he murmured, his voice rough and strained. "I had thought...I had believed that you…"

"_Don't _finish that sentence," Dara warned as she rose to her feet, walking a few steps away before spinning back around toward him. "Anything you say is only gonna make things worse…and that goes double if you were about to question my feelings for you! You _know _I love you, you git; don't pretend that you don't!"

His head whipped around toward her, his entire being suddenly radiating hope even though she could tell that he was desperately confused. Deciding that giving him a chance to speak was a delay that she simply did not have the patience for, Dara plowed on.

"But if you need me to say it again, here you go—I love you, V. A lot. Too much, in fact. And _that's _why you're an absolute _bastard_!"

His head tilted just so, then shook as he offered her a shrug and an eloquent unfurling of hand and fingers that was at once questioning and beseeching. "Dara, my dear, please…I do not understand…"

"You planned to die tonight," she interrupted with a hiss. "From the very beginning, you never had any intention of living past tonight, and you never said a word about it. Even earlier, there I was, pouring my sodding heart out and you couldn't be bothered to be honest with me! You ran off down that bloody tunnel with absolutely no intention of ever coming back, you utter pillock!"

"I was doing what I had to do, Dara. I could not have folded when the winning hand was so clearly my own."

Dara snorted. "Bollocks! You didn't have to go off on your own like that—all you needed to do was ask and I would've been right there with you…"

"Something I would never, under any conceivable circumstances, have done." V snapped to his feet as well, now as angry with her as she was with him. "As I believe I have told you many times, this vendetta was _mine. _To seek your aide would have been to put you in great danger…"

"Oh, fine time to start worrying about _that_," Dara cut in. "Where was all this reluctance when you chucked me out?"

"Do you think I am not well aware of my failings where you are concerned? Let me assure you, Dara, I feel every mistake I have made in regards to you like a knife to the ribs! It is precisely why I could not—why I _would _not—place you in any further peril, and this was a situation fraught with it. As you say, I fully expected it to prove fatal for myself…I could not conscience that the same might be true for you."

"And what about me? How do you think I could've lived with myself if _you'd_ died? You think I could've gone on every day, wondering if I could've made a difference if I'd been there? Wondering if I might've been able to save you?"

"As you were there and did make a difference, that is something of a moot point, is it not?" V folded his arms across his chest, the very picture of disapproval. "You stuck your nose in, just as you always do, and followed me anyway." He paused, head tilting yet again as he remembered something he had forgotten in the aftermath. "But that's not right, is it? You did not follow me at all. You came from behind Creedy…" His look was piercing enough that she didn't need to see it to feel it. "You knew my plans."

Not the least put off by the intensity of his gaze, Dara quirked a half-smile that didn't even come close to reaching her eyes. "Yep," she replied, popping the p with relish.

"How?"

"Funny thing about life," she quipped. "It's all about who you know, innit?"

"That is not an answer."

"Sure it is—it's just not the one you want to hear."

"You are being deliberately infuriating!"

"No," Dara shook her head. There was more smugness than anger in her voice now; she was enjoying this turn around more than she reasonably should.

"No?"

"No, I'm not being deliberately infuriating," she clarified off his puzzled question. "What I'm being, V, is evasive and enigmatic. And if that irritates you, it's no more than you deserve. Who do you think I learned it from, after all?"

"You are being irrational!"

Dara's grin turned wicked. "Calling yourself irrational, then? Because I'm not acting any different than you did with me when you sent me packing all those weeks ago, V. I asked why you were sending me away and got a nice, neat non-answer for my troubles, thank you very much. So I figure fair's fair, yeah?" She stopped, leaned toward him with one hand curled around the corner of her mouth and pitched her voice into a mock whisper. "Not quite as much fun being on the other end, is it?"

"Why must you always resort to such childishness? Why must you always play this ridiculous game of one-upmanship?"

"I'll stop acting childish when you stop acting holier-than-thou."

V's arms dropped to his sides, clearly offended. "I was not acting…" he stopped, shook his head tiredly as one hand lifted to rub at Fawkes' forehead wearily. "How many times must we have this self-same argument?"

Dara, lips pursed and arms crossed, blew out a sigh. "Don't think we'll ever stop having this argument," she said simply. "We're both of us too bloody stubborn for our own good." She grinned again, but this time there was a hint of warmth breaking through the chill. "And I wouldn't have us any other way."

"I thought you were angry with me?"

"Oh, I was, and I likely will be again," she assured, though her smile widened. "But not so much at the moment. Right now, I'm just ecstatic that you're even here for me to argue with!"

V laughed. He couldn't help himself. "You, Dara Turner, are the very definition of the word capricious. How do you manage to change moods with such astonishing alacrity?"

There was an easy playfulness to his tone that she had not heard for far too long and it drew an answering laugh from her own lips. "What can I say?" She threw her arms out and gave an expansive shrug, grinning like an idiot the entire time. "It's a gift."

Without warning, V closed the distance between them, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her against him in a fiercely possessive embrace. His other arm lifted, gloved fingers molding to the curve of her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "_You_ are a gift," he breathed. "You saved me, Dara…more times than I can count and in more ways than I can name. I do not like to imagine the man I would have been had you never come into my life."

Gulping down a lungful of air, Dara blinked away the tears that had sprung up in her eyes at his soft words. "V…you saved me too. You've taught me…"

A gloved finger pressed against her lips. "Hush for the present, my dear," he chided lightly. "I have something of great import to say, and I claim the stage as my own for the time being."

She frowned, frustrated. "But, V…"

He moved his finger away from her lips and up to her forehead, caressing away the lines of her frown. "Always arguing," he said, and there was a smile in his voice.

"I don't _always_ argue," Dara corrected. "But you're being…"

"I love you."


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Well, here it is…the last chapter. Thank you so very, very much to everyone who came along with me on this journey. I appreciate every single reader and every single review more than anyone could possibly imagine!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.**

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

_I love you._

Dara's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. Wide, wondrous blue eyes sought his, and the stunned joy bubbling up from their depths nearly took his breath away. "Say it again," she whispered thickly, her heart in her throat.

Hand once more finding the curve of her cheek, V leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers. "Dara Turner, I love you."

Her entire body sagged against his until he could feel every inch of her against him. "I love you too," she whispered.

Now it was her turn to catch him by surprise. She pulled back, her hands lifting to catch his face within her grasp, and then—as she had done earlier on the train platform—her lips pressed against Fawkes' unmoving mouth. V's hands dropped to her hips, holding her to him. He nearly growled with displeasure when she pulled away too soon.

The determination in the gaze that met his sent a chill of foreboding through him.

"The mask, V…take it off."

Going utterly still, V prayed that he had not heard her right. "What?"

"You heard me," Dara shot back, the determination as thick in her voice as it was in her gaze. "I wanna kiss _you_—not Guy Fawkes."

His head had begun shaking before she'd even finished speaking. "No," he ground out, on edge in a way he had never thought to be with her. Why was she doing this? He had thought she understood.

"Yes," Dara retorted, lunging forward to catch his face in her hands again, forcing him to look down at her. "I _love_ you, V. I don't care what you look like. I wanna kiss you…I wanna see your eyes."

"Please, Dara…I cannot…"

He tried to retreat, but she pulled him back to her. "You _can._ We can."

"No."

Dara reached up and swept her hair behind her ear, turning her face toward his. "Remember this? I showed you this…I _trusted_ you with this…"

"Your comparison, my dear, is sorely lacking. You cannot possibly compare a single scarred ear to…" he paused and swallowed thickly, "…to my own defects."

"Scars are _not_ defects, V. Wasn't it you who told me I should never be ashamed of what I am and that anyone who said differently was a fool? And wasn't there also something about exquisite beauty and strangeness in the proportions?"

Leave it to her to remember the details of a conversation that took place over six months prior. "Again, Dara, you oversimplify the matter egregiously. You cannot compare your situation to mine!"

"I can and I will," Dara shot back, nearly shouting. He attempted to turn away and she returned her hands to his face, forcing him to look at her. "And I'm not oversimplifying anything. My ear doesn't matter to you, what's under your mask doesn't matter to me. That really is all there is to it! All you have to do is trust me!"

"And that," V said with a sigh, "is something I cannot do."

She flinched, stung. "Why not?"

He closed his eyes, not able to bear the hurt and accusation staring back at him. "Because I know how it would be," he murmured. "You say that you do not care what lies beneath this mask, Dara…but what is easily done in theory would prove impossible in practice. You would turn from me."

Dara's expression morphed instantly into one of pure outrage. "I would _not_!"

"You would," he said, sad and more than a little heartbroken. "You would turn from me…you would leave me…you would…"

She let him talk, not daring to interrupt. He was distracted enough by the dark thoughts plaguing him that he had failed to notice the subtle downward slide of her hand. Nimble fingers found the edge of the mask, resting against it as lightly as possible, until finally, she had heard enough about what he feared she would do.

"Enough," she growled, fingers sliding beneath the mask and knocking it up and off his face before he even knew what she was about. He froze, all the air whooshing from his lungs in a single, shuddering exhale. She took full advantage of his momentary paralysis and took a long, lingering look into his eyes—_blue, like a sapphire. _"Why don't you let _me _decide what I will or won't do, yeah?"

And then her lips were on his.

This wasn't the time for her to go to pieces—if anything, this was the time for her to keep _him_ from going to pieces. But oh...how she wanted to fall apart, to lose all semblance of control and allow her body to turn liquid, to melt entirely into him. She wanted to pull him closer, hold him tighter and never, ever let him go.

But V was still far too fragile for anything like that. In fact, he was likely to be furious with her for what she'd done—could potentially view her unmasking as a betrayal. It was a mildly disturbing thought, but not enough of one to move her to guilt. She was counting her blessings that he hadn't shoved her off the instant she foisted herself upon him like this—but she wasn't sorry for what she'd done.

She couldn't be...not when it was _his _cheeks that her thumbs were drawing delicate circles across, _his _lips that hers were pressed against.

When she finally pulled back, it was with no small amount of caution. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow and shaky, and every muscle in his body was taut with...anger?...horror?...fear? She'd liked to have thought that it was none of those; that he'd been so overwhelmed by her kiss that it was pure, wanton desire that left him in such a state, but that was a stretch too great even for her overactive imagination.

Running her eyes over his face, trying to read his feelings but failing spectacularly, she decided to stay silent and let him work through the emotions that had gripped him on his own. Funny that she could read the mask like a book, but this, his true face, was a true mystery to her. Taking advantage of the moment, she gave up trying to read him and instead turned her attention to memorizing that which she had long ago despaired of ever having the pleasure of knowing.

His brow...his nose...his cheeks...his chin...his mouth...

_His face_.

Disfigured, of course, just as she'd known it would be; the skin was the same here as on his hands—reddened and rough, marked with the ridges and valleys of scarring that she suspected covered the majority of his body. But it was, surprisingly, far less disfigured than she'd imagined. Dara rolled her eyes at her own foolishness—the fact that it had thoroughly educated her in the proper way to perform a dramatic unmasking aside, she really had seen Phantom of the Opera one too many times. She almost laughed at the thought and wondered how V would take it if she shared the observation with him.

Not well, probably. At least, not yet. Someday though...

Yes, someday he would be able to joke with her about it. It was a promise that she made to herself and to him—especially to him. Someday, he would be comfortable enough with her and with his own skin to appreciate the parallel.

As it was, the face before her inspired none of the horror or pity that she knew he feared it would. It was a less than handsome face, yes...but it was _his_ less than handsome face and that made all the difference in the world.

He had been silent and unmoving for far too long, she finally decided, the tiniest hint of worry beginning to worm its way into her. Had she truly gone too far? He'd thrown her out once before for far less.

"V?" She spoke his name with more certainty than she felt and made the split-second decision to seek refuge in humor. "Y'know, I used to think I was pretty good at the whole snogging bit," she quipped, forcing her tone to stay light. "Course...the way you're just standing there, I'm starting to wonder if I'm not a bit rusty."

And still, he stood there.

Frowning now, Dara swallowed down a lump of nervousness. "V? You ok?" A pause, another swallow. "You're...you're not angry with me, are you?"

His eyes flew open at that, and she would have given just about anything she had to be able to read him. As it was, considering the question that had _finally _goaded him into movement, she doubted she was going to like his answer. Feeling suddenly anxious, she clasped her hands together in front of her, fingers twisting about one another pensively.

"Look," she hurried to say into the silence, hoping to delay what she knew was going to be an angry response on his part, "I know I likely shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't help it. Hearing you talk like that, making all those assumptions about how I'd react...it pissed me off, yeah? Needed to prove you wrong, and kissing you seemed the best way to do it. And you _were_ wrong, weren't you? No turning and no running to be seen, is there then? I'm still here, and I still love you and I'm not going anywhere, so you just go right ahead and be mad at me 'coz I just can't bring myself to care. And another thing..."

"Dara."

His voice was quiet but firm, commanding enough to shut even her up. Her lips snapped closed on the words she'd been about to say and she swallowed convulsively, feeling miserably close to tears. "Yeah?"

"Do shut up."

And once again, her lips were pressed to his.

But that was where the similarities between that first kiss and this second both began and ended. Because this time, not only had _he_ actually initiated it, _he_was also the one in complete control of it. One black-clad arm had wrapped itself around her waist, pulling and holding her firmly against him, his hand molded round the curve of her hip, leather-clad fingers biting into her skin even through the denim of her jeans. His other hand grazed the side of her neck before curving around the back of it, holding her to him while his thumb teased at the soft skin just behind her ear.

Altogether, it was nearly enough to bring her to tears. In such a short span of time she'd discovered so much that she'd never dared hope she ever would. She now knew for certain what it felt like to kiss him...and now, she was being made well and truly aware of how it felt to be kissed _by_ him. On the surface, it was such a small difference--but to her, it was staggering.

He pulled away far too soon for her liking, but the intensity of his gaze as he focused it down on her sent butterflies of anticipation skittering through her stomach. If she read him right—and she thought that just maybe she was already learning how—she was going to have ample opportunity in the future to discover everything she could ever possibly want to know about kissing him.

V stared down into Dara's upturned face, burying his uncertainty beneath a veneer of confidence that he only half felt. She was helping more than she knew though—if he'd seen even a shadow of pity in her eyes...

But her expression was blessedly free of pity and positively teeming with tenderness and a healthy measure of wonder. And _that_, he could well live with.

"Perdition catch my soul," he said after a long, heavy moment, his eyes boring down into hers and his words vibrating with feeling, "but I do love thee, and when I love thee not, chaos is come again."

A beautiful line, that. But when it earned him a frown rather than the smile he had anticipated, he found his affection for it diminishing.

"Dara?"

"Save the Shakespeare for another time, yeah?" Her voice was firm, but gently teasing—not angry, just mildly annoyed. "I wanna hear it from you, V. It doesn't have to be perfect, and it doesn't have to be pretty...it just has to come from _you_."

He couldn't help himself—he laughed. She was arguing with him. Even now, in the face of his declaration of love, she was arguing with him. And arguing as only she could, charming him even as she criticized. It was so typically and beautifully her that it warmed him in ways that few things ever had. How he loved this woman...how he utterly adored her—sharp tongue, biting wit and all. "Well that is rather high-handed of you, my dear, dismissing Shakespeare so ungraciously."

"Oh, I don't know," she retorted cheekily, "the old sod could probably do with the set down. Far too puffed up with his own importance, that one is—do him a bit of good to realize he's not the only one as can string together a memorable line."

"You would truly take my words over those of the Bard?"

"Every second of every day," Dara responded without even the slightest hesitation. "I'm not in love with Shakespeare, V. He's fantastic enough...but he's nothing to you." She smiled, and it was a slow, gentle thing. "Least, not to me."

It was surreal to hear those words and know that he was the object of them; he vaguely wondered if it would ever be as easy for him to hear them as it seemed to be for her to say them. "Take care, my dear," he said, not meaning to delay, but unable to do anything but, "else you shall make me quite arrogant."

"You already are," she shot back, "it's part of your charm. What woman could possibly resist a man who thinks he can change the world single-handedly?" She lifted her hand, laying it over his where it still rested against her neck, squeezing gently. "But that's really neither here nor there, is it? I know you've already said it, but I wanna hear it again. And I wanna hear it from _you_. Your words, V." Her smile changed then, lips quirking up devilishly to match the glint in her eyes. "And do try to make it good, yeah? Don't plan on having any more declarations like this, y'know, so you'd better make it memorable."

He took a moment to think, to consider his words, charmed by her flirtatiousness but wanting to fulfill her request despite the fact that he knew she hadn't been full serious. "I confess," he said quietly, "that I do not quite know how to say what you wish me to. I could recite you poetry that would express my feelings much more eloquently than I ever could—God knows I have dedicated volumes of it to you in my mind over the past year. But you have said that such will not satisfy..." He took a deep breath, eyes dropping from her momentarily. "I have no experience with words of love, Dara, save for those in writing or on film. I have never given them, and I certainly have never received them. And while you claim that the quality of them matters not to you, it most assuredly does to me."

Lifting his head again, he met her eyes once more, falling into her gaze in a way that he had never been able to before. She had always been beautiful to him, but seeing her clearly, without the gauzy insets of the mask between them, he was able to see the true extent of her loveliness for the first time. "For twenty years, I saw nothing but my vengeance—I lived for nothing but my vengeance. Nothing else existed..." The hand at her waist lifted to mirror its twin, her face now cradled between his palms, "...until I saw you. After that moment, everything changed." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. "I fell in love with you, Dara, as I had never believed I could, and as I never shall again."

Her eyes slid shut once his words stopped, and he waited for her reaction somewhere between fear and anticipation. The very last thing he expected though, were the tears that began to roll down her cheeks from beneath her lowered lashes. "Dara? My dear...what is the matter? What has upset you?"

Feeling his hands begin to fall away from her cheeks, Dara caught them in hers, pressing his fingers back to her face. "Nothing," she assured, "nothing. I'm not upset...it's just...I just..." her eyes opened and the pure joy shining out of them took his breath away. She never completed her thought; instead, she surged forward, throwing her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his. "I love you so much."

It took a very long moment for V to respond to her embrace. But eventually—and oh, so tentatively—his arms came up and around her, hugging her close. Eyes sliding shut, he walled off every rebellious thought and focused entirely upon her delightful warmth in his arms. "And I you, my dear."

Her response to that was a kiss, delivered not to his lips as he would have expected—_hoped prayed longed for_—but to the highly sensitive skin behind his ear. V gasped, every muscle in his body going rigid. She pulled away from him almost immediately, but did not go far, her hands settling on his shoulders and her face close to his. The expression she wore was a far cry from the joyous exuberance of only moments before, and V cursed himself for being the cause of that change.

"I made you uncomfortable," she said quietly. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..."

"Not uncomfortable," he interrupted hastily, hand lifting with surprising ease to cup her cheek, "merely unaccustomed. You must remember, my dear...this...is new to me, and more than a trifle alien."

"Yeah, I know." She leaned into his caress. "And that's why you're gonna have to tell me if I do anything you don't want me to—anything even the least bit unwelcome. I don't wanna upset you."

Mesmerized by the way her cheek fit perfectly into his palm, he marveled at the contrast between pale skin and black leather. V would have laughed at her words had he not been so wholly astonished at the very notion that her touch could be anything but utterly and perfectly wanted. "Unwelcome?" He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone. "Your touch could never be unwelcome, my dear. Never believe that my reticence has anything at all to do with you." His hand slid downward, fingers seeking out the pulse point in her neck, thumb irresistibly drawn to the bow of her lips. "But do please know that my eagerness to overcome it has _everything_ to do with you."

Her lips pursed beneath his touch, bestowing a kiss through his glove. "Good to know," she murmured around his thumb. "And we've got plenty of time to figure out how to do just that. But I don't wanna rush it. This is new to me too, and I'm absolutely terrified of pushing where I should pull or charging in where I should hold or retreat."

V smiled gently, adoringly. "My dearest Dara, while I have no doubt that you will invariably both push _and_ pull me in whatever direction you so chose, I cannot believe that you could or would ever retreat. Indeed, I pray you do not." He dipped his head toward her, voice dropping to a whisper. "Please, my dear, never retreat from me, for that, above all else, I could not bear."

She tipped her own head forward slowly, touching her forehead to his yet again—rather liking the habit that it was quickly becoming. "Same to you, luv. I know it'll be hard for you at first, but please...please try not to pull away from me. Because no matter what the cause and no matter how well I understand the reasons, it still hurts."

How simple that request sounded, and how agonizingly difficult he knew it would be to fulfill. A lifetime's worth of instinct cannot be overcome in one night, regardless of how much he wished that it could. Even now, her proximity—while a consummate delight—made the darker, more primal parts of him as taught and tense as a bow string. She had made astounding progress at breaking through the outermost of his walls over the past year, but there were still so many left to be dismantled. How could he ever make such a promise? Was he doomed to suffer the guilt of causing her pain with every instinctive flinch?

"I'm not expecting miracles, V," she said as if sensing his thoughts. She pulled back to look into his eyes. "I'm not asking you to get over two decades worth of instinct in one night. There's no time table on this. I'm just asking that you try. That's all…just try."

Part of him was moved by her words, expanding and filling with so much love for this woman before him that it was staggering. But another part of him was disgusted by the pleading in her voice and the unreserved acceptance in her eyes. It was wrong to see her as she was now—on her metaphorical knees before him, like a supplicant begging scraps from a King's table, beseeching him to _try_ to give what any other man would have without hesitation.

Angry at fate for the circumstances that had made him what he was, and even angrier at himself for being unable to overcome them with the very haste that she was forswearing, he pulled away from her, seeking to put distance between them.

"This is wrong," he muttered, giving voice to the thoughts tearing him to pieces inside. "It is a mistake, a colossal and monstrous mistake. I am not...I cannot be what you need, Dara, and I was a fool to believe even for a moment that I could be."

Annoyed by the sudden shift in his mood, Dara crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him as he paced restlessly along the length of the room. "How about you let me be the judge of what I need, yeah?"

He stopped, his back to her, the set of his shoulders relaying his tension. "Perhaps you are unqualified to make such decisions."

She was not going to get angry. She was not going to let him push her—manipulate her into an argument that he didn't really want, but would eagerly engage in nevertheless. He really was absolute rubbish at dealing with his emotions. Deliberately ignoring the goading hostility of those last words, she blew out a long, slow breath. "Ok, I'll bite. Let's say I'm not. Let's also say you are—so tell me then, V, what do _you_ think I need?"

"More than this," he snapped, "more than death and vengeance; more than a dark and silent tomb. More than a shadow of a man who must struggle to give you anything of himself, and who shies from your slightest touch. There can be no future for you here. You need a real life...with a real man who will be capable of loving you as you deserve to be loved—wholly and without reservation." He stopped, head dropping and voice cracking. "I...I cannot be that man."

Repeating to herself her earlier determination _not _to get angry, Dara let his words hang between them. Finally, she huffed out a long suffering sigh.

"No," she said at last, "I guess you can't."

The fall of his shoulders, despite the assertions he'd just finished making, made her shake her head. Stubborn, ridiculous, _impossible_ man...

"But I really couldn't care less."

His head jerked around toward her, and she couldn't help but smile when she saw the expression on his face. So many months worth of prayers answered in that one look—to be able to see _him_ and not the armor he'd donned to play the role that fate had assigned him. A tiny part of her mourned the loss of the tilt that would certainly have accompanied the look he was giving her then, but a much larger part of her reveled in the knowledge that this, surely, was the look that the angled mask had hidden from her for so long.

Because the furrowed brow and tightly pressed lips cried _confusion_ even clearer than the tilt of the mask had.

"What?"

Crossing the room, she stepped past the boundaries of polite and insinuated herself directly into his personal space to give him a challenging look. "I'm gonna say this once and only once, V, and you're gonna listen and accept it whether you want to or not. I don't want anyone but you."

There was a flicker of something unnamable in his eyes, but it was quashed almost immediately by a thick wave of something far too close to despair for her tastes. "Dara..."

"No," she ground out. "Don't you dare argue with me, V. I'm not a child and I'm not a fool. I'm telling you that you're the one I want and I expect you to respect that."

He sighed, and she could see his anger and his self-imposed boundaries both beginning to waiver. "I...I cannot help but fear that you are being too hasty—that you are overlooking the bad of the situation in your single-minded determination to elevate the good."

"Are you kidding me?"

He frowned, confused yet again by the unrepentant mockery in her voice. "I assure you that I am not, Dara."

"You think I've got some idealized view of you, V?" She shook her head and let out a tight, snort of a laugh. "You really couldn't be more wrong, luv. I think you're the most wonderful man alive, yeah...but you're still a man. You're arrogant and opinionated and far, far too self-righteous for your own good sometimes. You've got enough emotional issues to send Freud into a bloody tailspin and you've got absolutely no idea how to deal with them in a healthy, constructive way. You've got an awful habit of thinking you know what's best for everyone around you when the truth is you don't even know what's best for yourself. You're stubborn and obstinate and you have a tendency to wall yourself off if you feel the least bit threatened. You..."

"All right," he cut in, the frown he wore swiftly turning from confused to mildly affronted. "I believe you have more than made your point, my dear."

She mock pouted at him, though her eyes were dancing. "But I was just getting started! Took me a minute, I know, but now I've really warmed to the subject."

Once more, he let out a long, heavy sigh—but one of resignation this time. "You are going to refuse to see sense in this, aren't you?"

"Completely," Dara admitted, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You're stuck with me."

The barest hint of a smile played about the corner of his mouth and he shifted his gaze up to her almost shyly. "There are, I do believe, far worse fates."

It was a compliment, after a fashion—not nearly so obvious as some he'd paid her over the course of the evening, but it somehow managed to feel far more intimate than any of the rest had. "Better believe it," she tossed back at him, feigning indignation as she jutted her hip out and snapped her hands to her hips. "This is a prime piece of real estate, I'll have you know. And you, luv..." she smiled, "are currently the high bidder."

He still quietly and firmly believed that she would be far better off without him, but was hardly foolish enough to push the issue. On this, he decided then and there, he would yield to her judgment. The time would likely come when she would see the error of her decision, but until then, he found that he was perfectly content to give himself over to both her playful mood and his own desperate want.

"Are you then implying, my dear," he intoned gravely, "that there are other offers on the table?"

That earned him the impish grin that he had fallen so very in love with from almost the first moment he met her. "Would that make you jealous?"

He hid his own, answering smirk. "Desperately."

"Then yeah," she said smugly, "there are. Lots. In fact, there're so many that I'm thinking about converting to a time-share if the _right_ offer doesn't crop up soon."

"Indulging in blackmail now, are we?"

She shrugged. "I'm not above a bit of extortion every now and then if it gets me what I want."

He sobered then, swallowing down every shred of doubt and lingering fear that plagued him. Facing her squarely, he breathed out a long, slow breath. "And what is it that you want, Dara Turner?"

Sensing the change in him, reading the sudden seriousness in his gaze, her own levity fled. Imbuing as much feeling and certainty as she could into her answer, she raised her arm, palm down and fingers reaching out toward him. "You. Just you. All of you."

"And that is your price?"

A nod. "Not too high is it?"

"Oh no," he slid his gloved fingers around hers, squeezing tightly before he yanked her forward, his arms fencing her in. "For you, my dear...for _this_," he tilted his head, brushing her lips with his, "I would pay that and more."

Her smile then was enough to light even the darkest corners of his mind and heart. "I love you," she whispered, her voice low and rough with emotion.

"And I you," he replied before once more leaning down to capture her lips, this time in a far deeper kiss than any they had yet shared.

It would not be easy. There would be misunderstandings. There would be arguments. He had barely even begun to sort through the myriad issues that plagued him and neither of them had any doubt that his past and the damage it had done would be an obstacle that they would have to overcome on a daily basis.

But the past year had taught both of them a very important lesson.

As long as they were together, there was no obstacle big enough to stop them.

_**The End **_


End file.
